


Newsie x Reader Tumblr Requests

by lunarlychallenged



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, I honestly don't know who will be in this, This is just a compilation of requests I get on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-03-28 20:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 62
Words: 105,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13911150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarlychallenged/pseuds/lunarlychallenged
Summary: This is going to be a compilation of all of the fic requests I get on Tumblr.  I can't predict the content or the consistency of it, really, but this is just a dumping place for all of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “hey ally can i ask you for some race comforting reader after anxiety attack fic please”
> 
> Ask and you shall receive.

The bell hadn’t sounded yet. 

You could only just see the window from your bed, just enough of it to see that it was still dark in the streets of New York. You would have gone back to sleep, but there was a niggling thought that would not silence itself. You only had fifty cents left. 

You hadn’t been stupid with your money, not really, but you had gotten hit by one thing after another. The weather had been lousy, so nobody wanted to stop long enough to buy a paper that was half soaked already. Your boots had fallen apart, literally collapsing off of your feet when you tried to put them back together, so you’d had to buy a new pair. Though Pulitzer had lowered the price of papes some after the strike, it was still more than you could afford.

You were near broke, and if selling didn’t go well for the next day or two, you might not be able to afford to pay to stay in the Lodge.

The fear started small, hindered by the warmth under your covers and your effort to focus on how nice the city was when it was quiet, but it grew with each minute that the bell didn’t ring. You laid there, half hoping it wouldn’t ever sound and have needing it to ring now, until you thought that your ribs would surely split open soon if the pressure didn’t alleviate.

You tried to steady your breathing, but couldn’t really focus on it. 

Where would you sleep if they turned you out? 

What if somebody found you out there and did something? Kidnapped you, raped you, robbed you?

What if some pimp found you and wanted you to become a prostitute? Could you really say no if you were starving?

What if the boys found out? What would they say, God, what would Race say if he saw how far you had fallen? Nothing had ever happened between the two of you, but he would surely be disgusted by you if he found out that you were a whore.

A broke, homeless hooker. That’s what would become of you if selling went badly. It was inevitable.

Some part of you heard the bell clanging and the typical morning sounds of the other newsies, but nothing could delve deep enough to pull you out of the hole of what ifs that you had fallen into. You curled yourself into a ball, trying to keep the heaving chest and trembling shoulders invisible. As you shifted to make yourself smaller, you felt the dampness of the bed. You had sweated through your clothes. What a pathetic mess, you thought to yourself. No wonder you ended up like this. Who would want to buy a pape from someone like you?

“Aye, Y/N! You heard the bell, get a move on.” Race’s voice echoed through you, but you didn’t feel like you could move. If you moved, you would fall to pieces. So many terrible, tiny pieces of you that nobody could evereverever put you back together again.

“Y/N?” His voice was closer now. He would see how disgusting you were, and he would hate you. You pulled the blanket closer and tried to make yourself even smaller. Maybe if you got small enough, you would disappear entirely. Better that than to have Race - perfect, handsome, charming Race - see you the way you were.

“Hey, doll, are you okay?” His hand touched your shoulder, which was shaking so hard that it shook his entire arm. “Oh, Y/N,” he said gently.

The newsies were no strangers to hurt. Many of them were orphans and most of the rest were from broken homes. They had all fallen prey to the sharp edges that the mind created during dark times. Race knew that he couldn’t drag you out of it, not forcibly, so he didn’t try. He scooched you farther to one side of the bed, trying and failing to ignore how frail you felt, and crawled into bed with you.  
He curled his body around yours, holding as much of you as he could reach. “It’s alright, kid,” he whispered into your ear. “You’s gonna be okay.”

“It’s not,” you rasped. You couldn’t look at him, not his face, so you looked at his hand. His arm was wrapped around your shoulder, spanning your chest, and his hand squeezed your shoulder where it pressed into the bed. “I’m not okay.”

“You will be,” he said.

“But what if I won’t? What if I never, ever get better? I think I’m falling apart.” The last words were so quiet, so broken, that even you could hardly hear them.

Race didn’t know what it was, exactly, that you were thinking about, but it didn’t matter. “You ain’t falling apart. You can’t.”

“Why not?” The words were a croak, but a little louder than before. He was rubbing circles into your shoulder and waist, hard and almost painful. The pain was grounding you, tethering you in place so you couldn’t drift farther away.

“I’s not gonna let you. I’ll hold you together.” He gave you a sharp squeeze, like you couldn’t possibly fall to pieces because none of the pieces could escape his grip. Race pressed a kiss against the back of your neck. Your arms had loosened around your stomach so they could press against his, fingers intertwining.

“That’s not how it works,” you said, but it was in a breathless laugh. “You’s gonna crush me.”

He lightened his grip a little. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

You told him all of it. The money and the rent. The boots. About how you might have to be a prostitute, and that he’d probably hate you. The words, so serious a few moments earlier, sounded a little sillier now. Not sillier, exactly, but more extreme than they had needed to be.

“I could never hate you,” he said. “And you’ll make rent.”

“Not if I don’t sell papes,” you said bitterly. You noticed that it was getting light outside. If you didn’t get outside soon, you wouldn’t make any money at all. You didn’t feel overly warm anymore, just a pleasant heat everywhere that Race was touching you. You didn’t feel like you would fall apart if you moved now, but you thought that maybe you’d like to lay in his arms for a few minutes longer.

“Even if you don’t sell papes. I’ll help you pay it.”

“No!” You bolted upright, eyes wide as you took him in. “I ain’t taking your money. You don’t have anything to spare.”

“I’ll make you work for it,” he said with a teasing grin. “You’s gonna light my cigars and shine my shoes. You can earn your keep.”

Your lips ticked up in response. He still had one of your hands in his. “You’s gonna pay me to light cigars?”

“Better than being a hooker, ain’t it?”

“Probably,” you agreed with a shaky sigh.

“But if you want,” he crooned, leaning in close, “I’d pay you for a kiss.”

Your eyes fluttered shut in anticipation, but you frowned when he pressed his lips against your forehead instead of your mouth. You shot him an accusing look when he danced off the bed, but even the innocent touch had set off the butterflies in your stomach.

“C’mon,” he said. “We can discuss the terms of your employment once the day is out. Let’s see how much you can make while the sun is out. I ain’t paying to kiss you if I can do it for free,” he added with a cheeky grin.

You got up, legs still a little weak, but heart a great deal lighter.


	2. I Love You Prompt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race - 5. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” Resume your dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you for the rest of the night.

It wasn’t that Race had a lot of relationship rules for the two of you. Why make rules when everything was already wonderful? There did not need to be a set date night, since neither of you could get enough of the other. No rules about who you could or could not talk to, or how much touching was allowed in public. It was a relationship that was largely led by what felt right, and Race felt awfully right when you were around.

There was one set of rules, though, that was set in stone. There was a certain list of songs, subject to additions but no subtractions, that the two of you were required to dance to. It did not matter where you were, what you were doing, or who you were with. The first few notes would play, his eyes would fly to yours, and you would drop everything to dance to it. “Come on Eileen” comes on in the grocery store? Ditch the cart and get to an area open enough to fit your fully choreographed dance routine. “Walking on Sunshine” starts playing at a family reunion? Hopefully you weren’t talking to anybody important, because that conversation is coming to a swift end.

The rules were not linked to the fact that the two of you were dating. They had come long before, back when having a crush made everything feel important and competitive. At first, they only mattered at parties. If “your song” came on, wasn’t it a moral obligation to dance together?

Eventually, you didn’t have one song with Race. It was a half dozen, maybe more. Then it wasn’t just at parties, when the lights were low and everybody was too drunk to question it. It was anywhere, as long as it meant that Race got to watch you smile and see the way you focused on moving just the way you wanted to. When he started dating you, it just solidified them.

Race loved dancing with you. Really, he supposed, he loved you. He loved you in every way he could think of; every way he thought you would allow, but it was only when he danced with you that he had trouble keeping himself from saying it.

Was three months of dating enough time? He knew he felt it, but did you? Would you say it back, or panic, or think he was joking? Not worth the risk.  
  
There had been a day, a few weeks before finals when you guys had just started college, when he had been horrified by the telltale beginning of “Gasolina.” You had just had your first fight. It wasn’t really anybody’s fault - just some miscommunication or another, with both of you too proud to admit that it was stupid so you could move on. The fight should have ended so fast, so early, but you were both too proud to back down. As a result, you were tense and uncertain together, too quiet and too sharp.

The song began out on the quad, on one of those perfect days. Race had heard you call it an “Indian Summer” day. It seemed like the entire university had congregated outside, hoping to make the most of one of the last warm days before a seemingly eternal winter. Race’s eyes shot to yours, instinct winning out over pride.

You had looked back, and after a second of uncertainty, Race moved away from the rest of the guys. You mirrored him, finding a strip of empty grass, before the regular dancing could begin.

Race wanted to make you laugh. He wanted to be over the top, or ridiculously bad, or anything that would break that uncertain stoniness on your face.

Slowly, too slowly, you warmed up. The first time he tried the Sprinkler, you hardly looked at him. By the time he was resorting to the Lawnmower or the Shopping Cart, you had loosened up enough to give a snort of laughter. When he reached to twirl you, he made sure to spin you straight into his arms. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your ear.

You stepped back and offered him a careless grin. “Sorry for what?” When you kept dancing, the relief that swept over him was overwhelming. Truly, his legs went a little wobbly, a little weak, at the thought that you would join him in the caf for breakfast the next morning, like always.

“I love you,” he blurted. The relief shifted to horror when you faltered, looking at him again. Before you had a chance to respond, he grabbed your hips and drew you close to him. “-r sweet moves. I love them. Super classy, babe.”

You laughed, squirming a little. “They’re classier when you aren’t trying to grind on me.”

You never mentioned the exchange afterwards, so Race figured he was in the clear. No worries. He loved you, but you didn’t know it yet. Good.

 

 

The Cupid Shuffle, while not on the unofficial list of dances that the two of you had to do, was definitely a tune that Race always got down for. It was, like, illegal not to dance to it. So, at Jack and Katherine’s wedding, Race ended up next to you for the song.

During the portion of the song where you were directly behind him, you leaned over to whisper into his ear. “I dare you to do the rest of the song like the Cha Cha Slide.”

“Absolutely not,” Race said, horror and delight intermingling “No, no, no.”

“I dare you,” you crooned, bopping your way 90 degrees away from him. “Are you a chicken?”

He groaned, his amusement slowly winning out over the clear and present danger. “I’m no chicken, doll.” He stopped dancing, ignoring the surprised looks from the people around him, and started clapping.

You were cackling while you danced. You almost doubled over when his dancing would interfere with somebody else’s, and Race thought for a while that you might genuinely be in danger of wetting yourself. He would have cared more if he hadn’t been trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks. Jack would never let him live this down.

When the Cupid Shuffle ended, you grabbed him hand and dragged him away. Mirth danced in your eyes, or maybe that was just the happy tears. “You have cha-cha-d your way right into my good graces,” you said. Giggles still mixed with your words, and he thought that your cheeks must ache with the size of your smile.

He leaned in and pressed a swift kiss against your lips. Another. Another. “I love you,” he said.

You tried to stifle your laughter, but it had turned into a vicious cycle. Each spurt of laughter powered the next one, and you couldn’t stop. You opened your mouth to speak, maybe to say it back, but Race chickened out. Again.

“-when you do evil things,” he finished lamely. “You’re diabolical, honey.” He kissed you again, effectively swallowing anything you might have wanted to say to him, and he mentally kicked himself. He may have been ballsy enough to do the wrong dance, but he really was too much of a chicken to follow through. Soon enough, thankfully, he was too swept up by your lips and your smell and your hands to worry about what he should have done.

 

 

The Shrek soundtrack was the God of music. The Forrest Gump of movies. The pizza of food. It was indisputably prime, so when “Accidentally in Love” came on while you were cooking in your apartment, Race was swift to sweep you up into his arms.

“This song isn’t a slow dance,” you said, but you settled into him easily enough. You wound your arms around his neck and settled your face against his shoulder.

“Every song is a slow dance, if you try hard enough.” Race held you close against him, not caring about food that could burn or any mess you could be getting onto him.

“Even ‘Gasolina?’”

“Any song,” he repeated. “You just have to try harder.”

You hummed a little, half in response to him and half to go along with the song.

Race took a deep breath, heart settling in his chest. It was steady, if a little heavy. You were still humming a little, the vibrations rumbling through him too. “I love you,” he said softly. There was a split second where he thought about correcting himself, but it wasn’t anything serious. Last second nerves, but not second thoughts. “I love you when we do this.”

He felt you smile against him, but he quickly swept you away into a different conversation. Race desperately wanted to hear you say it back, but he didn’t want to spoil the evening if you didn’t. This was perfect. This was what he wanted. So he talked about the awful haircut Albert got, how wonderful the new Panic! at the Disco song was, and about how it should be illegal to put coconut in chocolate. In anything, really.

You did not tell Race that you loved him too, not then. The moment had passed. But he felt your eyes on him, warm and hopeful, and he knew that another moment would come soon enough. They always did.


	3. I've Got You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack - 55. “I’m not going anywhere.” and 16. “I’ve got you.”

“Hey, Jack?” Race’s face popped up over the side of the side of the penthouse, and Jack knew that whatever it was must be bad.

It wasn’t just that the boys weren’t allowed in the penthouse, though that was certainly part of it. Race was a troublemaker, but he did have a certain regard for Jack's rules. He would not have crossed a line if he wasn't sure the other side was worth it.

More notably, his eyes had grown. Jack did not think he was being arrogant when he said that he knew his kids. Race was hatless, curls matted down over his sweaty face. His blue eyes were wide and afraid, and though Jack would never have admitted it, the look made his blood run cold.

He took a half second to collect himself. “What brings you up to this side of the city, Racer?”

“Sorry, Jack - I knows it's late. Albert just came by. There's been some trouble out his way.” Okay. No big deal. Albert could handle himself. “It's Y/N, she -”

Jack rocketed to his feet, staggering a little. He had been on the verge of sleeping when he felt the ladder shaking, signaling Race's arrival, and now he regretted trying to go to bed early. He should have seen this coming.

Albert hurried alongside Jack, not bothering to say anything. He didn't have to. This was not the first time Jack had needed to come for you, and though everybody wanted it to be the last, nobody was surprised when Jack had to play the knight in shining armour again.

On his way over to the Lower East Side, he kept an eye out for you. If he was lucky, the DaSilva family had managed to keep you down. If he wasn't, he'd find you stumbling down the street or passed out in some gutter.

“Y/N,” he whispered harshly, waiting for you to call back through the quiet streets. He doubted you were out there, but he needed to be sure. 

Every kid on the street had to find an outlet. Some were lucky enough to find it within themselves, like Crutchie, who had an unfailing sense of humor. Others found hobbies, like Jack with his art or Finch with his slingshot. Then there were the more unfortunate kiddos, like Race with his gambling, or you. You were not a drunkard, per se, but on the worst days, you drank too much. 

You were not a Newsie; you made money doing odd jobs. Selling flowers, delivering messages on the fly, washing dishes after restaurants closed. You got by, more or less. The trouble was, since you weren't a Newsie, you had nobody to lean on. The guys would help you when they were around, but Jack didn't want to think about how often men got handsy or bigger kids got greedy when nobody could interfere. On those bad days, you needed to take the edge off. To forget. Sometimes in pursuit of peace, you loosened up a little too much.

When Jack got to Albert’s place, an older boy answered the door with tangible relief. Albert had two older brothers, both of them in apprenticeships before money got tight enough for Albert to drop out of school.

“Jack, thank God.” He kept his voice low, and though he was a few years older than Jack, he looked at the Newsie the way kids look to adults to make the hard calls.

“Where is she?” He pushed by, reaching back and squeezing Albert’s shoulder on the way. Jack did not expect that he would audibly thank the boy, but he thought that the touch would be enough. Albert’s brother did not have to answer, since a loud thump sounded from the kitchen.

When Jack walked in, you were sitting on the floor in a bewildered mound of grubby skirts. You peered up at him and smiled. “Jack Kelly! Fancy seeing you here.”

He didn't bother tamping down the fond smile. Albert wouldn't say anything. It's not like there was anything to say that wasn't already known. “Isn't it just my lucky day?”

The elder DaSilva boy helped Jack hoist you up. He leaned in close, whispering into Jack's ear. “Sorry to get you so late. We'd have kept her here, but we don't have enough breakfast -”

“Don't worry about it,” Jack said. It came out louder than what was necessary, but you had leaned in conspiratorially. He smiled at you again. “Come on, sweetheart. Let's getcha home.”

 

 

 

Home for you was the attic of an old rich woman. She had grown too feeble to get up the stairs, so she had no idea that she had a guest sneaking in through the window every night. Now, drunk as you were, Jack wasn't sure he could get you through an attic window without somebody breaking a leg or a neck.

Had you known that he was taking you to his home, you might have put up a fight. After all, you had refused every night before.

“I'm not interested in being one of your nightly conquests, Kelly,” you would say with a sweet smile. Sometimes you would bump your hip against his for good measure. “I still want you to talk to me in the morning.”

Jack would have been offended if it wasn't for the fact that your accusation was well founded. It was not unheard of for him to sweet talk a girl home, whisper some sweet nothings through the night, and then leave her with nothing but bitterness in the morning. Even so, when Jack invited you to the penthouse, it wasn't to be charming. He wanted you to have a home, and while he thought that you knew it, he also knew that you were too proud to accept it.

But tonight, as drunk as you were, you said nothing as he led you up the ladder. He kept a hand on your waist to steady you. “I've gotcha, honey. Don't worry. I've got you.”

You smiled down over your shoulder. “I'm sure you do. Keep your eyes front and center, Kelly. Be a gentleman.”

“Always am, Y/N.” With you, anyway.

He was lucky that you weren't a crass drunk. A little loose, a little silly, a little loud, but never dangerous or unkind. If you were too crazy, he might have had to huddle with you in some back alley. The boys would talk about you getting into the penthouse, but it was better than being stuck on the same level as the more desperate kids. Desperate men were even worse.

By the time he had you settled down on a heap of tattered blankets from various trash cans around the city, the moon was high in the sky. It lit up the city, softening the edges and blacking out the ugliest corners. New York was at its prettiest at night, but it brought out the ugliest parts if people. It was funny, though. Even the ugly parts of you were pretty to Jack.

You leaned against him, blinking slowly as sleep crept closer. “Thanks for bringing me home, Jack.”

He pressed a cautious kiss against your forehead. “Sure thing, kid.” After a pause, he decided to hazard a question. “What happened?”

“Nothin’,” you slurred. “Guys were buyin’, and I was drinkin’, and Albert came in -”

Jack made a note to buy Albert a seltzer. He couldn't afford it every day, but he really owed the kid. Things could have gotten bad. They had before. Jack wove his fingers through yours, and you squeezed back.

“You ain't leavin’, are you?” Your question was small, both in tone and in meaning. For once, Jack realized, you weren't thinking big picture. You weren't thinking about the next morning, or the next night. You just wanted him to stay.

“Of course,” he promised. “I'm not going anywhere.” He, on the other hand, was thinking big picture. He would not leave you tonight, but he intended to be there in the morning. He would invite you back for the next night, and whether you said yes or not, he would keep doing it. Maybe you weren't ready for a big picture with Jack Kelly. That was fine. He'd just keep painting it for you until you figured it out.


	4. Don't Scare Me Like That Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack - 8. Oh, my God, I thought you were going to die. Please don’t ever scare me like that again.

Kids shouldn't have to be scared. Jack said so all the time, and you knew he meant it. All of the kids you knew were scared, but they shouldn't have to be. 

Jack frequently went out of his way to fix it. It was why Newsies sold in pairs, even though they may have made more money selling solo. It was why he gave wake up calls, sold extra papes for just-in-case money, and learned to sew. Kids shouldn't be scared of things that should be easy to fix. Money shouldn't be what scares them.

The trouble was, it made him reckless. He was so quick to try and fix things for everybody else that he didn't always think through what would happen to him. A prime example, of course, was the day with the officer.

There were plenty of new kids coming in and out of the Lodge. Some of them were runaways who decided to go home, while others were orphans who had nowhere else to go. You were a runaway, but you were never going home. There was a new kid, a troublemaker, who you thought might be problematic enough that he would get taken away from the Lodge, fighting tooth and nail.

Jack found him on the streets, stealing and begging to get by. He became a Newsie, but stealing was a difficult habit to break. The kid had sticky fingers and a ruthless mind; a combination that drove Jack crazy with affection and anger. It came to a head one evening, when the boy tugged on Jack's sleeve with wide eyes and a trembling lip.

“Jack, I think I messed up.”

Jack's eyes narrowed. You had to fight a smile when his jaw tightened before he smirked at the kid. You had to fight an awful lot of smiles around Jack, which would have been less problematic if it wasn't for the fact that literally everybody knew it. “What’d you do?”

“I saw an easy pick,” the kid said shakily. “I got him, but I shouldn't have.” He opened his cupped hands, revealing a few crumpled bills, some coins, and - oh, God, oh no -

“You picked a cop?” Jack plucked the badge from the boy's hands, face going stiff and blank as he looked it over.

“I didn't mean to -”

“Get outta here,” Jack said roughly. “I hafta think.”

You stayed, leaning against the wall, as the others hurried out. The lot of you had been having a jolly old time at Jacobi’s, as though you all had something better than water. Jack had been happy; laughing and joking and giving out hugs and pats and squeezes. Now he was tense, pacing and rubbing thoughtfully at his jaw.

“You should go, Y/N,” he said. You had half wondered if he had known you were there at all, but now he turned and gave you a weary grin.

“No. No to leaving, and no to what you’s thinking now.”

“What am I thinking?” He sounded innocent, as though you didn’t know him well enough to know his plan by instinct alone.

“You’s gonna give it all back, and it’s a stupid thought, Kelly,” you said bluntly.

“But stealing is wrong, Y/N,” he sing-songed with a dashing grin. 

Your heart flipped, but you scowled. “So is knowingly getting yourself killed. We need you here.” Okay, maybe it was that you needed him, but it was true either way.

He smirked, seeing right through you. Then he sobered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “An officer will come here first, if he suspects a kid did it. We can’t have cops coming ‘round, and you know it. If I take the fall -”

“They’s going to kill you! You’s got a record, Jack! If they think that you’s stealing from the cops, you won’t come back,” you snarled.

“If he gets caught, he ain’t coming back. He’s just a kid.”

“He’s stupid,” you said bitterly.

“He’s stupid, but he should never have felt like he had to steal. He’ll learn. The rest of us did,” he reminded you. Jack took your elbow and led you to the door.

“Don’t do it,” you said. It sounded like you were begging, which was humiliating, but you would be willing to get on your knees if it meant that Jack would go home tonight.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He kissed your forehead, short and sweet, leaving you speechless when the door closed. Maybe you should have gone back in after him, but was there even a point? His mind was easily changed by logic, but none of what you had to say was logical. You had butterflies and selfish desire and hope, while he had selflessness and idealism and desperation. You could not compete with that.

 

 

Nobody met your eyes the next morning. If they were surprised to see that Jack was gone, they didn’t say a word of it. Some of them bought their papes and hit the streets, while others stayed back with you to wait for Jack to come home. If not Jack, than a word about him. You were Newsies, after all. You were always waiting on news. For once, bad news was your worst nightmare.

The day passed slowly. Some kids played cards, some took turns going on walks in case Jack turned up in some alley, and others just sat. Kids shouldn’t have to be scared, but you felt like everything in you had emptied out to make more room for anger and fear and loss. It was electrifying and made your hands shake something terrible.

Finally, when the sky was melting into unfairly beautiful shades of pink and orange, Mush dashed in. “33rd Street,” he gasped.

You ran, but didn’t have to make it that far. A few of the boys were carrying Jack, almost dragging him, back to the Lodge. Dragging him.

There was no way any of you could have gotten him up to the penthouse, though maybe the fresh air would have done him better than the perpetually stuffy and smelly bunkbeds in the Lodge. The lot of you set him up in one of the beds near the door. It may have been Specs’, or maybe Race’s. It didn’t matter. Nobody would be sleeping much that night.

 

 

The bruising that spread down his face was almost black. The purples and blues swirled together across swollen, splitting flesh before fading into his hairline. You supposed that it was probably on his chest and stomach too, maybe even his legs, but you didn’t feel right checking. Jack wouldn’t have wanted you in there anyway, and it didn’t feel right to strip him down without his permission. Jack was supposed to be invincible, untouchable, but he had been touched until he had broken.

Jack slept, and you sat with him. Others came and went, but never the little thief who started it all. He made himself scarce, and you half expected him to leave for good. You certainly would have, if you had mucked things up so spectacularly.

Jack slept. You must have slept sometimes too, as the swelling went up and slowly started to go down. A few times Elmer or Specs came to change Jack’s clothes; it was the only time Jack made any sound at all. He wet himself a few times, and there was blood in it every time.

Jack slept. It wasn’t so much that you cried as it was that you were crying; a constant stream of tears continually poured down your blank face.

Jack slept, and then Jack woke up.

It was just a groan, at first. A groan, and then silence. A little while later, the groan was longer, louder, and you longed to hold him. You would have done, had you been able to find a spot of skin that wasn’t mottled, bruised, or bleeding.

“Jack?”

Another groan.

Tension left your body in a flood, leaving you dizzy and weak. When was the last time you had eaten? “Oh, Jack, thank God.”

It was a while yet before the swelling on his jaw went down enough for him to talk. He could hardly open his eyes, so you talked for him. You told him about the sunset. You told him how stupid he was to have gone after you told him not to. You told him about things you remembered from before becoming a Newsie, both good and bad. You told him that Davey had taken charge and kept everything going while Jack rested.

You told him that you thought you loved him, just a little bit, but that was while he slept. Hopefully, anyway. It was sometimes hard to tell when he was awake or asleep. 

“‘M sorry,” he said once he was able.

A tear slipped down your cheek, but you gave a halfhearted smile. “Seriously? All of this, and you just say sorry? Oh, my God, I thought you were going to die. Please - don’t ever scare me like that again.”

He almost smiled, but cringed. You thought that his face would be too tender to do much of anything for a few more days. “Yes’m.”

 

 

“You need a bath,” Jack said.

You didn’t bother looking up from the newspaper you were flipping through. “You need a sense of common decency.”

He grinned, slow and wide. It was almost back to normal, but he was still on bedrest. He had several broken ribs, so nobody would give in to his pleas for freedom. “Maybe so, but at least I don’t need a bath.”

You shot him a look then, not needing to say that he was in desperate need of a bath. Clean clothes did not rid him of the scent of urine and blood, or the dirt that he had been laying in before anybody found him.

“You can go, you know,” he said a little later on. “Sell papes, sleep, bathe. I’m fine.”

“I’s not going anywhere,” you said firmly. “Not ever. You’s stuck with me, Kelly.”

“You know, I think I’m okay with that,” he said slowly. Thoughtfully.

You gaped at him for a second, and when he winked at you, you decided that you would kiss him someday, when it wouldn’t hurt him too much to enjoy it. Once he could kiss you back.

One morning, you woke by his bed with his fingers wrapped around yours. He was still asleep, thank goodness, or he would have seen the ridiculously large smile that glowed on your face for hours afterward.


	5. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race - I have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth

Jack had always been an effective and quick-witted leader for the Newsies, but in your opinion, his best idea had come in the form of a Birthday Game.

Birthdays were bittersweet affairs for the Newsies. Sure, it was fun to sing to each other and tease about having one foot in the grave or both feet in the cradle. Had the lot of you been normal children, they would have been great days. Unfortunately, with the way things really were, there had been no grand birthday bashes. You could not buy a cake if you could hardly afford to buy a regular meal. You could not buy a gift for a friend if you could hardly afford rent for yourself.

But Jack - wonderful, brilliant Jack - came up with a way to make birthdays special, even if it wasn’t a normal special. In the evening, once papes were sold and meager suppers were eaten, the Game would be chosen by the birthday boy or girl. It was always some variation of hide and seek, be it sardines, tag, classic, or sneaky. It would span the entirety of Lower Manhattan, and anybody could volunteer to be the seeker.

When he first came up with the idea, that had been all. Birthday evenings had been full of playful competition, with running and laughter and going to bed with sore feet and light hearts. After a few years, however, some of the boys decided to create a pool. The person who won - the seeker, if they found everybody, or the last person left unfound - would win the pool. It was often only a handful of pennies, maybe with spare shoelaces, shiny buttons, or a piece of hard candy. Even so, it raised the stakes and made birthdays that much more exciting.

When Elmer’s birthday came ‘round in the middle of July, he thought carefully about what Game he would choose. Nobody was surprised when he announced that in would be hide-and-go-seek tag, lips spreading in a devilish grin. Furthermore, much to the despair of the crew, he wanted to seek.

“What’ll you do if you win the pool?” Your question was aimed at Race, who was re-lacing his shoes to make sure they were extra tight.

“When I win the pool,” he said with a cheeky smile, “I’s gonna buy a whole bag of candy.”

“Not cigars?”

“Nah,” he said. “Don’t buy something if it’s easy to steal. What’ll you do if you win?”

You considered. You needed lots of things, like new shoes, a better hat, and a belt. The trouble was, the pool usually wasn’t quite enough money to buy any of that. You would probably just add it to your savings, but that wasn’t a good answer to a question about dreams. “A scoop of ice cream, probably.”

He nodded approvingly. “Halfsies?”

Oh, a good offer. Race was pretty quick, and he always had good hiding spots. Promising to go half and half if either of you won was a smart move, but neither of you had won in ages. 

You winked at him. “What, you scared of eating my dust?”

He scoffed. “Scared that you’s gonna be starving on the streets while I live like a king, more like.”

You snorted, but spat on your hand nonetheless. When his hand clasped yours, a thrill ran through you. It was so stupid, since the whole spit-and-shake thing was so common. It was used for greetings, goodbyes, deals, and promises, so you had done it with dozens of kids in New York. Even so, it felt more intimate with Race for reasons you did not like to dwell on. It was not a kiss, not even close, but a part of you liked to imagine that it had the same effect. A promise, sealed by swapping saliva.

Maybe that wasn’t the most poetic way to look at it.

“Alright, Newsies!” Jack’s bellow sent a hush over Jacobi’s, drawing in every pair of bright eyes and eager grins in the joint. “You have sixty seconds before Elmer comes after you. If he tags you, you’re out. Everything is fair game, but you can’t come whining to me if you stab somebody in the back and they take a dump in your pillow.”

A few kids laughed out loud. Everybody shot Finch sideways glances, though he did nothing but watch Jack with a small smirk on his slim face.

“On your marks . . . get set . . . go!”

If you and Race were smart, you would have split up straight away. Halfsies wouldn’t matter if you guys got caught together. You weren’t sure who it was that ended up following the other, but by the end of the first ten seconds, you were dashing through the streets side by side. You kept your head facing forward, but your eyes would dart to the side to take in glimpses of his strong forearms beating in and out of view, or to watch him swipe a sheen of sweat out of his wide blue eyes.

Finally, hiding in the alley behind the tailor’s, Race leaned back against a wall. “I think we’s good for a minute,” he panted. Despite the red of his cheeks and the shallowness of his breathing, his face was split by a manic grin. “Christ, I love birthdays.”

You were gasping for breath. “Where -” Gasp. “Do you think -” Gasp. “He’ll go first?”

“Elmer usually heads for the pier -”

“Or for the gates,” you finished.

“If he goes for the pier,”

“We’re in the clear.”

His lips quirked into a smile, but you didn’t think he knew it. “But if he goes for the gates -”

You sighed, though it wasn’t as deep as it would have been if you could breath easily. “He’ll head our way next.”

Neither of you said so, but it left you with a dilemma. You had to decide whether to stay, hoping that he was heading the other direction, or leave, risking the possibility that he’ll find you somewhere else because you misjudged his location.

At the precise moment you told Race that you thought he would come your way, he was saying that the two of you ought to stay put.

He regarded your words solemnly, though that hysterical delight still danced in his eyes. “Wanna split?”

Your mouth went dry. No, not ever. Still, you nodded with a sure smile. “See you at the finish?”

“Eat my dust,” he replied.

You felt good while you ran away. Sure, games were more fun when you shared them with somebody. That didn’t mean you couldn’t bask in the thrill of it while you went at it solo.   
You would hide behind a trash can outside the bakery, or duck into shadows as the sun set.

You saw the occasional other Newsie, giving each other silent reports about what was waiting ahead. You were safe for a good half hour before you heard a startled yelp a street over. Though you knew that you needed to run, knew what that little cry meant, your feet shuffled with panic. In that split second of hesitation, Elmer came onto your street, followed by a sulky Albert.

That spurred you into action. You sprinted in the opposite direction, heart rocketing into your throat when you heard the slap of shoes on pavement as Elmer took flight. 

It’s okay. Okay, okay, okay. You were a gazelle, and Elmer was a cheetah. Sure, you knew he was faster than you. That was obvious, judging by how loud his panting was getting as the seconds flew by. He was faster, but you had been playing the Game with Elmer for years. You knew that his stamina was practically nonexistent, so you just had to outlast him. 

Not faster. Longer.

You threw yourself around a corner, arms wheeling wildly to keep your balance without slowing down. You had maybe five seconds before Elmer rounded the corner, six or seven if he slowed down before turning. If you were in sight when he did, you were toast. You could kiss that pool goodbye, unless Race somehow stayed out of sight.

Okay. Get out of sight. Once he passed, you would be in the clear.

You barreled down the sidewalk, practically able to feel the prize money slipping through your fingertips as the seconds slipped by, when something wrapped around your waist and dragged you to the side.

You closed your eyes and opened your mouth to scream, already imagining what horrible thing could happen next, when you were shoved up against a wall with a hand over your mouth.

“Y/N! Hush!” The whisper was pressed up against the shell of your ear, and though the person was too close for you to see his face, you relaxed. Race. He pulled his hand off your mouth when he felt you collapse against the wall.

Footsteps bounded past you, allowing you just a glimpse of Elmer as he ran in the direction he thought you were still going. He didn’t even pause by the slim alleyway where Race had been hiding. You were in the clear.

You grinned up at him, half delirious with relief, and he smiled back. You had to choke down a laugh, knowing that Elmer might still hear you, and fought to catch your breath. “How’d you know it was me?”

“You smell.”

You snorted, gently elbowing him in the stomach.

“I’d know you from a mile away, doll,” he said. His voice had softened, and you became very aware of how close he was to you. Each breath you took sent your chest pressing into him. You could feel his breath against your face, and when he turned to see if anybody was coming, he blew into the shell of your ear.

You swallowed thickly. “Lucky me.”

His smile faded a little more, and you could see a tick in his jaw. Usually he only got tense like that when he was nervous, and he would soothe himself by lighting a cigar. Now, however, there was no relief to be found. He licked his lips, and you went breathless for a totally different reason.

His arm was still around your waist.

“I think Elmer is gone,” Race mumbled, eyes earnest as they bore into yours.

You hummed, eyes on his lips.

Just one kiss. One promise, sealed by swapping saliva. 

That sounded a little less stupid now.

“Y/N,” he said. Whatever he planned to say was swallowed by your lips, searing a hard and unspoken promise into his. 

Some promises were better left unspoken, either because they shouldn’t be said or because words could not possibly encompass everything you needed to say. The kiss was like that, made up of feelings and desires that you could not describe to him, but could show him for a just a second.

Just one kiss. Or maybe two, or four, or six. 

Finally, you split away from him, ducking out of his grip and away from the wall. Race was panting again, sweat glistening on his face as he fought against a bewildered grin.

“Gotta blast,” you said. You winked, executing a jaunty salute before backing out of the alley. “We’ve got a pool to win.”

Maybe, you thought as you ran, you wouldn’t split the money with Race. You would spend it on a date with him instead.


	6. I Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert - 3. I just told you I liked you but now I’m shy and say “never mind, forget it” and why are you looking at me like that?

“I really like this book,” you said dreamily. Your hands traced the soft pages, the smooth cover, the stiff line of the spine. Albert watched your hands, forgetting to read his own book.

The school library was quiet, but that didn’t stop you from whispering to Albert about the book, about something that happened in one of your classes, or about a joke Race had said the day before. It didn’t matter whether or not Albert felt strange about talking in the silent room, since he would have been willing to talk to you even if you were living in the “A Quiet Place” movie.

“If you like it so much,” he said mock-snidely, “why don’t you marry it?”

You grinned. “I didn’t say that I loved it, Al. I just like it-like it right now. Like, love could come if I had the proper time and encouragement, but it’s just liking right now.”

“And I like you,” he blurted. The two of you gaped at each other, each not sure if the other was reading the comment the same way. Did he like you and your attitude, and just said so at a confusing moment? Did he like you the way you said you liked the book?

Should you say something?

You opened your mouth, not totally sure what you wanted to say, but certain that the right words would come to you if you just started talking. Well, maybe not certain. Hopeful, though. Definitely hopeful.

Unfortunately, as soon as you started to talk, Albert shut his eyes and went beet red. The red was deeper than that of his hair; swallowing up his freckles as the furious color spread from his hairline to the collar of his shirt. How much farther did it go? To his chest? Even lower? The thought made you blush a little too.

“Forget it,” he said.

“Albert -”

“Nevermind, Y/N,” he snapped. He pointedly looked back down at his book, flipping a page. “Seriously, just forget it.”

 

 

You spent days trying to figure out what you would have said. What you should have said, really. Thanks? I know? Why? I like you too?

You did like him too. That was just one of those facts that you had gotten used to. You liked pizza. You liked books. You liked stepping on crunchy leaves in the fall. You liked Albert - his freckles, his hair, his sense of humor. He made you laugh, and that was a quality you wouldn’t pass up.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t looking like you’d have a chance not to. Those few seconds that it took to understand what he said had been a few seconds too many, and now he wouldn’t even look at you.

He liked you. The idea of it filled you with swirls of butterflies and anxiety. He liked you, and if he wasn’t going to give you a chance to say it back, you’d just have to steal your chance. 

 

 

Albert opened his English book to the right page for class that day, and there was a sticky note inside. “I like you too, Albert.”

He looked over at you, but you studiously read the text. He grinned, running his fingertips over the words.

At the lunch table, he pulled out the study guide for the Spanish test next period. There was another sticky note. “I like you too, Albert.” You weren’t in his lunch, and you definitely weren’t in his Spanish class. He had no idea how you got the note there, but he carefully pulled it out and stuck it in a folder, next to the first one.

In the bathroom, he found it written in one of the stalls. He was freaked at first, but after checking in all of the others, he saw that it was written in each. All of the other bathrooms, too. You must have gotten all of the guys to help. Knowing them, they had done it with enthusiasm. “I like you too, Albert.”

When he opened his locker at the end of the day, simultaneously floating and trying to stay cautious, the same sticky notes coated the entirety of the inside of his locker. It was a wallpaper of confessions, and he stopped trying to battle the smile that he had been stifling all day. It blossomed into existence, lighting up the hallway and making time stop.

When he slammed the locker door, you were waiting on the other side. “I like you,” you said aloud.

This time it was his turn to search for the words to say. Should he ask you out? Kiss you? Just say it back, then move on?

You deepened your voice to an almost comical low. “If you like me so much, why don’t you marry me?”

Albert laughed. “I didn’t say that I loved you, Y/N.”

“Alright,” you agreed. “If you need some time and encouragement, I have plenty to offer.”

“Okay,” he said. He didn’t think it was the right time to kiss you. The first time he kissed you, it would not be in the middle of a school hallway. Instead, he kissed your forehead. He let his lips linger, hoping that it was both an invitation for encouragement and a promise to return the favor. For you, he had plenty of time. If this was what you did without encouragement, he couldn’t wait to see what you would do with some.


	7. Sleeping Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert - 4. We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair

You woke with your face pressed against something very warm. Without thinking, you burrowed your face in a little closer and took a deep breath. The scent was somehow warm, and very musky. Not clean, exactly, but the natural smell was far stronger than the smell of dirt and sweat.

“Did you just . . . smell me?”

You rocketed back, looking with wide eyes at an equally surprised Albert. You had totally forgotten that you were in bed with him. You had forgotten everything, aside from that instinctual desire to breath him in.

You swallowed thickly. “I mean, yeah?”

He gave an awkward smile, no doubt as uncomfortable with the situation as you were. There was a long pause. You half expected him to kick you out, or to tell you off, but he surprised you yet again. “Okay.” He got out of bed and rushed away, leaving you to burn with embarrassment in his bed.

It had all started when you got sick. You hadn’t been able to sell for a while, and all of the money you’d already had was spent on medicine and food to help you get better. You hadn’t been able to pay to stay at the Lodge, and though the other Newsies had offered to help you, you couldn’t accept it. They were all balanced as precariously as you were, and since you would never be able to pay them back, you wouldn’t take anything.

They’d had a meeting. They hadn’t invited you, of course, so you hadn’t known what was happening until after, but they came up with a solution. You would stay at Albert’s house. So long as you snuck in and out through the window after his father and brothers went to bed and before they got up, nobody would need to know. All of the money you made could be saved up until you could afford to go back to the Lodge. 

Super easy. No problems, right?

You and Albert had both assumed so. Newsies shared everything from selling strategies to meals, so why not a room? It had seemed like a perfect solution right up to the moment that you looked at each other at bedtime.

“You take the bed,” you chorused. “No, you,” you said simultaneously.

You grinned. “Seriously, Al, just take it. It’s your bed, and you’s doing enough by having me at all. I can sleep on the floor.”

He shot the floor a disbelieving look. “You ain’t sleeping on the floor.”

“I would have been on the ground if I was on the streets,” you argued.

“And you’s here so it won’t be like being on the streets at all,” he said. 

You wanted to keep arguing, but it was pointless. Albert was unmovable once he had made up his mind, whether it was about who he was selling with for a day or, now, where you would be sleeping. You would not be sleeping on the floor, but you would not be letting him sleep on the floor in his own room.

“We could, you know,” you said.

There was a split second of silence while he gaped at you. Oh, yes, he knew. He knew that you were offering to share a bed with him, and he also knew that you knew he liked you. Everybody knew that he liked you. It was why he had offered up his house, even though the both of you would be outcasts if somebody found out. You knew how he felt, and you were giving him something that would be both wonderful and torturous.

He wanted to say no.

He wanted to say yes.

He couldn’t say no.

He shouldn’t say yes.

“Fine,” he huffed. He threw back the covers, crawled into bed, and faced the wall so he couldn’t look at you. You waited to get in, smiling at his back. Yes, you knew he liked you. You weren’t sure that you liked him, not like that, but you had never allowed yourself to think much about it. You had nothing to offer him. He had a home and a family. You didn’t even have enough money to pay rent.

When you finally got under the covers, you faced away from him. If you started thinking about him now, you might start wishing for things.

Now, in bed alone, you wondered when during the night the two of you had moved. Both of you had flipped over during the night, and your face had been pressed into the muscle between his shoulder and neck.

He really had smelled nice.

No, no. no. You leapt out of bed and darted to the window. It would be better to leave before he could come back. Albert would never say anything in front of the others, so you wouldn’t have to worry about him saying something when he came to the gate.

 

 

Weeks had passed, and no matter how the two of you slept - both under the covers, neither under the covers, one under and one over, one at the foot of the bed with the other at the head - you would always wake up in the morning tangled together. His nose in your hair, arm over your waist, legs twisting together, you breathing in his scent. You were learning the lines in his forearms. He now knew the curves of your body and the plains of your face.

You knew each other, and though neither of you was allowed to touch, neither of you could resist in sleep.

Maybe he radiated heat, making you want to find him.

Maybe both of you had just gotten used to having a bed to yourselves, so you just spread out.

Maybe Albert was a cuddler, so he would have held anything in bed with him.

Or, maybe, it was just the two of you. It was Albert and Y/N, not bothering to stay away from each other when the only reasons stopping you mattered when you were awake.

Finally, one morning when you woke up, you had enough sense not to smell him. You did not snuggle closer. You pulled back, not out of his arms entirely, but enough to look at his face.

You liked his face. You liked that it was still a little soft, and that it had deep lines from smiling. You liked all of his freckles. You liked his mussed up hair. You liked that, even though he saw your mussed hair and sleepy eyes and heard your morning voice, he still let his fingers linger a little too long when he touched you during the day. He knew what you were like all day, every day, and he still wanted to be a part of your day.

“Are you watching me sleep?” His voice was quiet and a little gravelly, and he hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Yeah,” you whispered back.

His lips curled a little. “Don’t. It makes it hard to sleep.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?”

He huffed a little laugh. “I don't care. Whatever you want.”

You smiled a little too, closing your eyes. In this moment, with both of you barely awake and the tension broken, you could admit to yourself that you did like him. You liked him for free, with nothing to offer and not asking for anything in return.

Maybe you did have one thing you could give him. If he didn’t want it, you could make a joke out of it. “You said I could do whatever I wanted,” you would say, and then you would duck out the window and never come back.

“Albert,” you whispered.

“Y/N,” he said with a smile. He still had not opened his eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

You leaned in and pressed your lips against his. It was just a quick kiss, not deep or graceful. When you pulled back, he was smiling again. 

His eyes opened a little, dark with exhaustion and gentle. He tugged you back to him, burying his face in your hair again. His arm tightened around your waist. “Go to sleep,” he mumbled again. 

You smiled, breathing him in without worrying about what he would think, and did.


	8. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race - 4. We slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair

The Lodge always got packed during the winter. Some of the poorer or thriftier kids would spend their springs and summers on the streets, saving pennies and dreaming of buying a better life. By the time the first snow came, however, they would be back to paying rent in the Lodge to get out of the cold.

You kind of hated it. Sure, it was nice to see everybody again. You enjoyed hearing everybody’s stories and swapping strategies to sell extra papes and earn a little more money. You liked the support and empathy, and you liked the encouragement that came with the extra friends.

What you did not like was how crowded it got. You did not like getting up an hour earlier to make sure you got to the bathroom. You did not like having to fight for the opportunity to talk to the friends you had year round, and you did not like needing to share a bed. There were probably rules against having that many kids under one roof, but the landlord cared more about making money than he did about keeping everybody comfortable. If somebody got angry and left, there would always be another kid to take that spot.

Things had been balancing precariously for the past few days, with every bed full. You knew that a new burst of kids would be coming in soon; frost had been lacing the trash cans and puddles of water were slushy when you got up in the mornings. As a general rule, once you could see your breath while you sold papes, the Lodge would have a surge of new tenants. 

“Alright,” Jack said. “Who’s gonna bed with who?”

Kids started frantically calling one another, and though you tried to meet somebody’s eye to partner up, you seemed to be a little too late every time. Before long, just about everybody in the room had ended up with somebody else. You probably should have tried pairing up with somebody months before, but a stupid, hopeful part of you had thought that maybe this year you wouldn’t have to. Maybe this would be the year that you either got out of the Lodge for good or nobody else had to come in.

Jack grinned at you, and your heart sank. “Well, Y/N, looks like you’ll bed with a guest. How about Jacob?”

You choked a little. Jacob? He came every year, and though you all called him by name to his face, during the warmer months he had been fondly dubbed “Toots”.

“No.”

“You don’t get to be picky, kid. Early bird gets the worm, and all that,” Jack said smugly. As a joke a few years prior, nobody told him when they were pairing off. He sometimes missed things, since he slept in his penthouse when it was warm. All of you knew that he would get stuck with Toots, and he hadn’t gotten back at all of you yet. It had been a winter of early morning baths, plugging his nose with spare bite of cloth, and deep eyes circles as he tried and failed to sleep over the periodic bursts of flatulence.

“Please, no,” you pleaded. You looked frantically around the room, hoping for somebody to come to your rescue. Maybe you could give up your bed and sleep on the floor with the kids who came too late to get a bed. “Come on, there has to be somebody -”

“Some wagon just broke on 25th street, and the guy gave us a nickel to help him -” Race walked into the room, closely followed by Henry. They froze, eyes narrowing as they took in the close circle of kids. “What’s goin’ on?”

You threw yourself onto Race, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “I call him! He’s mine!”

He looked down at you, debating whether or not to hug you back. It didn’t seem like a hug; it was more like you were clinging to something in the ocean, begging to stay afloat. “Thanks?”

You grinned giddily at Henry, who looked a little afraid. “Enjoy bedding with Toots, Henry.”

He protested, but it was too late. You had found your partner, and you would get to sleep with him all winter long.

 

 

Maybe bedding with Race wasn’t as good of an idea as you had first thought. You hadn’t been thinking when you grabbed him; you just knew that anything was better than Toots. You had been thinking of what you would be avoiding, not the issues that you would be getting into.

The trouble was, you kind of, maybe, sort of had a massive crush on Race. You had practically grown up with him, so you had never expected to see him that way. After all, why would you like the boy he had been? There couldn’t possibly have been something appealing about the scrawny kid he had been. Surely, you wouldn’t have wanted the boy who had been so lanky during puberty; who you had known while his voice was cracking and he had to sit in bed with a pillow in his lap every morning.

Things had changed, and though the changes had been funny and unexpected, the results had been staggering. He had grown handsome, and he was no longer awkward. Annoying, yes. Always wanting to be the center of attention, absolutely. But you could be annoying right back, and you liked paying attention to him anyway.

So, in short, you were going to be in a bed with a boy who you definitely wanted to be in a bed with, and you would not be in a bed with him for the reason you would have wanted. If you were lucky, nothing bad would happen. You wouldn’t make a fool of yourself, and you would get through the winter unfazed. If you were even luckier, you might get over him. Maybe you would find out that his breath smelled awful, or that he sweated uncontrollable. Maybe he would be so awful that you started hating him, and you would digest the butterflies in your stomach.

The first night you had to bed together, there had been a second of uncertainty. The two of you stood, eying each other, the bed, and the people around you.

Finally, Race’s uncertain eyes flashed with mirth. “I always knew you wanted to get me into bed, doll.”

You snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’s just the lesser of two evils.” He had effectively broken the tension, so you crawled under the covers.   
When he followed you, he stayed over the covers. When he saw your questioning look, he said, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You snorted. “It’s November, Race. You’ll freeze to death. Get in here.”

When he did, the bed went delightfully warm. You smiled a little, making yourself as comfortable as possible without touching Race too much. The bed was small, so there was always some contact, but it was like he said. You two would be sleeping in the same bed for months, so you have to work to make each other as comfortable as possible.

 

 

You woke up once in the middle of the night. You looked over at Race. He was staring up at the ceiling, agonized.

You started to ask him what was wrong, or maybe if he needed something, but in the end you just turned over. It was the middle of the night, and if he was trying to sleep, talking to you certainly wouldn’t help.

 

 

Every day for the next week, when you were out in broad daylight, you would look at Race. Every morning, the bags under his eyes had deepened. Every day, your own unease grew. Were you doing something wrong? Nobody had ever told you that you talked in your sleep or anything, but what if you were keeping him all night?

You finally cornered him when he went to get a glass of water from Jacobi’s at lunch. “How are you?”

He shot you a questioning look. “Fine. Why?”

“Are you sure?”

He smiled. “I think so. Why?”

You frowned at him. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“It was the sirens again,” he said, taking the cup from Jacobi.

“There were no sirens last night,” you said. You thought back to the rest of the week. “No sirens this week at all.”

He shrugged. “The street lamps, then.”

“Race,” you huffed. When he didn’t elaborate, you grabbed him arm. “Am I doing something to keep you up?”

He looked at you with disbelief, and maybe a little guilt. “No, Y/N, you’s fine.” He pulled you off to a corner, making sure that nobody could hear him talk. “Look, I just ain’t so good at sleeping. I wake up easy, and I don’t fall asleep easy. It ain’t you.”

“But you look worse,” you said slowly. Now that you were thinking about it, you supposed it made sense. He was always blaming bad nights on sirens, or loud rain, or a stray cat that had a lot to say. He was always awake, but it had never occurred to you that it was Race himself that had a problem.

“Sure,” he said. He lit a cigar and bit down, chewing it more than smoking. “I usually get up when I can’t sleep. I can’t do that now.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Can’t get past the kids sleeping on the floor,” he mumbled. “I just have to lay there.”

He jogged away, seeing the lunch crowd coming. Not many of them would buy papers, but it was worth a shot. When you walked back to your spot, you tried to tamp down that ache in your chest. Lots of people probably had trouble sleeping, but you could not bear to imagine Race laying in bed, desperate to sleep, but unable to slip into it.

 

 

That night, when the moon was high and the room was silent aside from the occasional burst of gas from Henry’s bed, you opened your sleepy eyes to look to Race. He was looking up again, tapping one finger against the opposite forearm.

“How was your day?” Your whispered question made him jump a little, and he looked over at you.

He gave you a strange look, but turned onto his side. You did the same. “It was alright. I sold everything. How was yours?”

You shrugged. “Did you read the article about that tornado in Wisconsin?”

He settled in against the pillow, propping himself up on one arm. You chatted back in and forth, talking about the newspapers, fake headlines, and how you would save up money for new shoes. Maybe boots, if you could swing it. After only fifteen minutes, you had to furrow your brow in an attempt to keep your eyes open. Stay awake. If Race wasn’t sleeping, you wouldn’t either.

“What are you doing?”

“Staying up with you,” you yawned.

“Y/N,” he said gently. “You don’t have to -”

“No,” you said. You sat up in bed, patting your cheeks a few times to try and shock yourself awake. Somebody shushed you from the other side of the room, but you ignored them. “You shouldn’t have to just lay there, all by yourself.”

“I’m not by myself,” he whispered. “There are lots of you here.”

“And you just have to lay there. It ain’t right.”

“Go to sleep,” he muttered, and turned over.

 

 

Okay, so he didn’t want you to stay up for him. He didn’t want full conversations. You could understand that. If it was you who couldn’t sleep, you would never want anybody else to have to go through what you did.

The next time you woke up and saw him awake, you clung an arm across him and put yourself flush against him.

He stiffened. “What are you doing?”

“Go to sleep,” you mumbled against his arm. “I’m sharing my sleep with you.”

You couldn’t see him, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“Not with that attitude, it won’t,” you said. You pulled him closer, and he gave in. He relaxed and let you pull him in.

It became a regular thing. If he couldn’t sleep, you would wrap yourself around him. He was probably just humoring you. You thought that he was trying to ease your mind. You could never tell if it helped, but since he never stopped you, you held him as though it was as good for him as it was for you.

 

 

“Do you think there are alligators in the sewers?”

“Go to sleep, Y/N, we talked about this -”

“No, really.”

“Who told you that?”

“Albert said -”

“Christ, you know you can’t listen to Albert.”

“But, do you think -”

 

 

One night, you woke up when someone was lifting your arm. Though your first thought was to pull it away, you just frowned sleepily at the boy next to you. “Race?”

“Sorry,” he muttered back. “I just needed a little sleep.”

You grinned at him, warmth spreading to your toes. “Get in here.” You wrapped yourself around him, and this time he put an arm over your waist. Sleep stole you away easily, and when you woke up in the morning, Race’s eyes were still closed.

You sometimes forgot how curly his hair was, since it was trapped under his cap all day. It had rained the day before, so the usual smudges of dirt were gone. He looked young and angelic. It was almost enough to convince you that he wasn’t the troublemaker you usually knew.

“Newsies!” Jack’s bellow sent the room into immediate chaos. “It’s time to hit the streets! Up!”

Race’s eyes shot open, momentarily blinded by sleep. He looked at you as he pulled away, grinning broadly. “Morning, doll.”

“Sleep well?”

His smile softened, making you want to melt a little. Blech. “You’s better at sharing than I realized.”

You reached up to run your hand through his hair. You’d meant to mess it up a little more, but instead of ruffling it more, it was more of a caress. Race smiled and leaned into it for a second before pulling away.

“You heard Jack. We’s losing daylight,” he said. His accompanying wink made it impossible for you to stop smiling for hours.

 

 

Your relationship at night started to affect your relationship during the day. It started small, with Race sliding his arm through yours when you walked. You didn’t stop him, since you weren’t an idiot, so he continued to seek you out.

He would sling an arm around your shoulder while you talked to the other Newsies. He would partner with you to sell, though each of you had a different regular partner. He would steal your hat, or tie your shoe if it came undone, or slip you part of a sandwich that he was “too full to finish.”

“Y/N and Race, who’d have thought?” Albert’s teasing was good natured, so you just rolled your eyes.

“Seriously,” Romeo said. “Up all night, together all day.”

You elbowed him. The three of you stood just inside a shop, trying to warm up while looking for potential customers. “Shut up.”

“What, are you denying it?” Albert’s grin went a little disbelieving.

“It’s not like that,” you hedged. “Race doesn’t -”

“Right,” Romeo deadpanned. “‘Cause when I buy somebody food, compliment them, and hold them all night, it isn’t like that.”

You paused, thrown. Race did do all of those things. You hadn’t thought of them together that way, or with that connotation, but it was all true. “We’s just friends.”

“You better tell Race that,” Romeo said.

 

 

When Race wrapped an arm around your waist, you flipped over in bed to face him. “What are you doing?”

He froze, taken aback. “Stealing your sleep?”

“And when you give me food? Wrap an arm around my waist with the others? Partner with me?”

He pulled his arm away. “Being your friend.”

You tried to push down the surge of guilt that came with those words. “Were we not friends before? You never did those things.”

“Being your good friend,” he said. He went to turn onto his back, maybe to watch the ceiling the way he used to, but you grabbed his hand and intertwined your fingers. It felt far more intimate than linking elbows, the way he usually did. It was dark, but you thought you could almost see him looking down at your hands. “Maybe not.”

“What is it, then?” Your heart was in your throat. If he said best friend, you would hold him. You would do everything the way he wanted, because it helped him. His eyes had been brighter lately, and the bags under them had receded. But if he didn’t say best friend, if he said something more, well.

He turned back to you and wrapped his arm around your waist. You snuggled in closer, the way you had for weeks now. Unlike these recent weeks, he let your legs tangle, too.   
He always held you, but this was not how friends held each other. He kissed your forehead. “Go to sleep.”

You grinned, but weren’t satisfied. After a pause, you looked at him. “Do you think that there are mermaids in -”

“Y/N, shut up,” he said, exasperated.

“But -”

He kissed you. You wanted to laugh, or cry, or just sink in and shut up like he asked. This surely wouldn’t help either of you sleep, but it occurred to you that this was much luckier than you expected to get when the winter started.


	9. Leaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mush - 1. I have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth

The boy grinned at you, stepping close to avoid the bustling crowds. “What’s the headline? Anything good?”

You smiled back, already pulling a pape out of your pile. This boy always bought one. “Sure is. Isn’t it always?”

“No,” he scoffed. “Yesterday you said that a fire burned down the entirety of Chicago, but the headline was about another election speech.”

You shrugged. “Well, today is good. An innocent man was hanged in Atlanta.” You were absolutely lying through your teeth, but as long as those teeth were bared in a grin, it hardly mattered. He bought the paper, and when he looked down to see that you had lied again, he gave you a playful scowl as he allowed himself to be swept off by the flow of people. It hardly mattered. He would be back tomorrow, then the next day, always with the ready smile and tolerance for your sales strategies.

 

 

“What were you saying to that boy this morning?” Mush’s question was asked around a mouthful of bread. Like the two of you did most days, you split your suppers. He bought a roll of bread, you a hunk of cheese, and then you would split each to make small, open-faced sandwiches.

“Wrongful hanging,” you said with a grin. It was one of your favorite headlines to use.

“Huh,” Mush said.

You frowned. If you were looking for cryptic responses, you would go to Davey. Mush was as good natured as they came, so you couldn’t imagine what he could be thinking that he wouldn’t want to share. “Huh, what?”

“Nothing.” After a pause, he sighed. “The kid didn’t look like that was what you were saying, is all.”

“Well, he knew I was lying,” you admitted.

“Huh,” Mush said again.

“Mush,” you said, exasperated. When he studiously took another bite of supper, small in an attempt to make it last, you slid a little closer. “Mush,” you crooned. “Come on, Mushy, tell me what’s bothering you.”

“I’ve just never seen you flirt to sell papes before. Why start now?”

You gaped at him. He was right about one thing: you didn’t flirt much to sell. That was partially because you’d never had to, but really you felt bad doing it. It was one thing to lie with your words, but it felt different to lie about your intentions. “I wasn’t flirting.”

Mush looked you over, evidently convinced by the aghast set of your mouth and the confusion in your voice. “Well, he definitely is.”

At that, you laughed out loud. “He definitely wasn’t,” you said.

Mush grinned up at the ceiling. It was as though he was praying for patience, or maybe sharing an inside joke. When he looked back to you, his eyes sparkled. “Can you really not tell?”

That did make you a little uneasy; you weren’t great at reading between the lines. You assumed that people meant exactly what they were saying, and while that usually wasn’t a problem with the Newsies, maybe it mattered more outside of the Lodge.

“I think he’s just being nice,” you said with far more confidence than you felt.

“He’s flirting with you,” Mush said with finality.

“So now I should assume that every boy who smiles at me is flirting,” you said with a grin.

“No - I mean, sometimes,” Mush said. “But he was leaning.”

“Leaning?”

“Sure,” he said. “Leaning, but with intensity. Wanting. Desiring.”

“That’s not a thing,” you said with a snort.

Mush shoved the rest of his food in his mouth and stood, brushing crumbs off his hands resolutely. “It totally is. Let me show you.”

You allowed yourself to be pulled up, hand in Mush’s calloused one. He brought you back to the wall, positioning you against it.

“Okay, this is just regular leaning.” Mush stood close to you, watching you to see if you understood.

“Right,” you said. You knew what leaning was. What was the point of all of this?

“Now this is leaning.” Mush came in closer, propping his hand against the wall to keep his balance. For a second, you were distracted by his arm. Maybe you would have found it threatening, had it been somebody else, but this was Mush. Mush, who gave you the bigger half of the roll at meals. Mush, who rubbed your feet when they got blisters after long days. His arm was a lot more muscular than you had noticed. You could see defined lines in the muscle, and you had to fight the desire to run a finger along it.

You looked at his face, not wanting him to see your gaze, but it only made things worse. His gaze was settled on your face, and he was right. It was the way his eyes darted between your eyes and lips; the way his eyebrows were drawn as though he was caught between joy and pain. Longing, you decided. Like he loved how close he was, but the distance was agonizing. The look on his face went straight to your core, leaving you with heat, surprise, and wanting.

“Yeah,” you said lowly. “Yeah, I can see how this would work on somebody.”

He gave a little smile, but he didn’t pull away. “Right? You have to be careful with that guy.”

“It doesn’t feel like this with him,” you said. Maybe that guy was trying for this, but it hardly mattered. You didn’t feel it. When Mush looked at you like that, you wanted to do it right back. “You’re really good at that,” you said with an awkward smile.

He pulled back a little, but his arm stayed. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he said. You wondered if your smile looked anything like his; all wishful thinking and wanting to get closer. The cold air rushed in as he moved away, and though he went right back to joking with you, that ache didn’t fade.

 

 

The next morning, Mush was acting as though nothing had happened. Maybe nothing had. Maybe he had just been showing you what he saw when that boy bought from you, but when the boy came back, you could hardly smile at him. When he stood close, there was no rush. When he smiled, any appreciation you felt was in your head, not your chest. When he left, you felt nothing.

It would have been so, so easy to tell yourself that Mush had just been proving a point. After all, he said he had a lot of practice with those feelings. You could totally have believed he was making a point, were it not for the fact that you knew how Mush sold. He was a terrible actor. He could lie with his words, but he wasn’t the type to flirt either. When he flashed his dazzling smile, it was because he was happy. 

You knew that he was no actor, so if he was looking at you like that last night, you didn’t think that it was reading between the lines to believe that those feelings were explicitly there.

So, when the other boys were meeting up to get water at Jacobi’s, you walked over to Mush’s corner. His was usually the last to clear out, so he was the last to finish. You got there just as he was jogging over the an alley to grab his bag that he stashed away.

When he heard you approach, he turned and beamed. “Y/N! What are you doing here?”

You smiled back, but instead of stopping a respectable distance away, you came in close. His smile shifted a little, confusion mixing in, when you propped an arm against the wall.

“Hey, Mush. How was your day?” You grinned at him, allowing that feeling in your stomach to inject itself in.

“It was fine. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you said nonchalantly. You weren’t sure what to do with your feet. How close were they supposed to be to him? You hadn’t paid any attention to that last night. You tried to focus on his eyes instead, on the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He really was handsome.

“Are you seriously trying to lean?” There was a little bit of laughter when he spoke, but his eyes had locked onto your lips again.

You licked your lips, simultaneously self-conscious and delighted. “Could be. How am I doing?”

“Well,” he said slowly. “You could be a little bit closer.”

You moved in, only leaving a hair of space between your bodies. “Better?”

“Almost,” he said. His head dipped, just a little, but he pulled back. “Wait. Wait.”

You stepped back, feeling exceptionally foolish. “Sorry. Sorry, I just thought -”

“Why are you flirting with me today?” His question was a good one, but one that you had sort of hoped would be self explanatory.

“I don’t have a lot of experience with leaning,” you said, “but I do have plenty with the feelings. The wanting. All of it.”

A dusting of pink colored his cheeks, and the smile he gave you was broad. “Well, I guess I could give you a few more tips.”

The relief that flooded you was intense enough for you to have kissed him right then, but you wanted to play along. You moved back in, almost able to feel his breath against your face. “What now?”

“Next, you have to figure out if they want you back,” he said. “If they don’t, move away. If they do, move in.”

“How can I tell?”

“See if they lean back,” he said. 

He came a little closer, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. It was an effort to keep your eyes from fluttering shut. “How much should I come in?”

“About like this,” he said. He closed the rest of the gap and kissed you, slow and long. You took your hand off the wall and wrapped it around his waist, tugging him to you. You couldn’t get closer to him, not here, but you found yourself still trying to lean in closer. Yes, he was right, this was definitely different than a regular lean. 

When you pulled back to catch your breath, Mush’s eyes were bright. He huffed out another laugh. “Get it?”

“I think so,” you said. That same smile was mirrored on your own face. “I might need a little help perfecting it, though.”

When he smiled at you, the tension in your chest finally left. No, he really couldn’t act. Everything he felt was written across his face, and you loved everything you saw.


	10. Hypothetically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert - 11. You’ve said you’re going to leave, but I don’t want you to go and if I don’t say something now…

It was only a few miles, Albert reminded himself. If he wanted to see you, it would only be a few miles. He had walked a few miles for less important things than you, so how hard could it be?

“They’ll feed me three meals a day. Three meals! And I’ll be living there, so I’ll always have a roof over my head,” you were saying dreamily. 

The other boys were thrilled, of course. Leaving the Newsie life was too difficult for most, leaving a lot of kids to age out and be stuck on the streets. You, on the other hand, had been lucky enough to land a job as a house maid in one of the manors a little ways out of the city. 

It was only a few miles away.

“When will you be leaving?” Race had an arm around your shoulder, and Albert wasn’t envious at all. No, he had no right to jealousy. In all likelihood, you would have let him do the same, if he had ever gathered the courage to try.

“I start at the beginning of next month,” you said.

A few miles.

“I’ll come back to visit on my days off,” you continued. “I don’t know how often I’ll have them, but I’ll come here every time.”

“Please,” Race scoffed. “You’s gonna meet some handsome butler or rich lord’s son, and marry him. You won’t be in the slums of Manhattan on a day off.”

You blushed, eyes darting over to Albert, who did his best to put on a smile for you. Of course you would, but that did not mean that it wouldn’t break Albert’s heart the first time you didn’t come home; the first time he realized that the Newsies weren’t your home anymore.

“If you come on a day off,” Albert promised, “we’ll be happy to have you.”

“Bring us food!” Elmer’s request was met by further agreement, so the topic of future love interests was mercifully left behind. Not forgotten, but left behind.

A few miles was a lot, when those miles spanned social classes and life experiences.

 

 

The month flew by, and though Albert planned a million speeches for when you left, none of them felt right. He wanted to ask you to stay, but he knew that leaving was what was best for you. He wanted to tell you that he loved you, but maybe marrying somebody with a steady job or somebody born into money was better for you. He was trying to find a line between what was best for you and what was best for himself, but maybe that line didn’t exist. Maybe there was your happiness, miles away from his own. It wasn’t a line; it was an ocean.

You pulled him out a few nights before you would be leaving, telling him that you needed help picking out new things to take with you. Your clothes were falling apart, so once you had a respectable job, you needed to have decent clothes for days off. For now, you would blow your savings on a pair of shoes. Hopefully, by the next time you came ‘round, you would be clean and well-fed, able to afford better clothes.

“Why are you taking me? Why not Katherine or Davey?”

“If you don’t want to come,” you began.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he groused.

“Sissy,” Finch coughed quietly. Albert made as though to hit him, grinning when he flinched away.

You smirked at Finch. “You’s just jealous. I know how much you want a new skirt.”

He laughed. “Of course. You can buy me one once you start raking in the dough.”

The streets were quiet; it was almost dusk. The garbage of the city stank to high heaven, but Albert hardly cared. It was New York, and since he would be just as poor anywhere he went, he would take the smell if he meant he got the people. Then again, losing you would be a major blow to that quality of life.

“What’ll you want for Christmas?” You asked the question casually, but it threw Albert off.

“What do you mean?”

“I can buy presents for my favorite people now,” you beamed. “Nothing very nice, but something.”

“And I’m one of your favorite people?” His question was teasing, but he meant it. There were dozens of kids living in the lodge with you, so it seemed too good to be true that he would rank high enough.

“Of course you are. You always have been.” In the dimming light, your smile seemed almost embarrassed. The dimming light was probably all it was, but that did not make it any less significant.

“I like you too,” he said. It was insufficient, but it was all he had. It was all he had, after years of friendship. Years of memories, hugging, selling together, drawing pictures as makeshift birthday presents, and secret fantasies of kissing you someday. He had even been saving money to take you out for dinner, since you deserved more than the stale loaf of bread he could currently afford. In short, he wanted to give you more, if you wanted it. Sometimes he even thought that you wanted more, but once you announced that you would be leaving the city, that hope was effectively killed.

After a while, Albert realized that the two of you hadn’t walked toward any clothing stores he had seen. “Where are we going?”

You smiled, linking your arm through his. “Just on a walk. I didn’t think you would have come if I didn’t have a reason.”

He opened his mouth to agree, because of course you were right, but the words that came out were totally different that what he had planned. “You shouldn’t do that.”

The two of you stared at each other, shocked. Albert was sometimes too harsh with his words, and he had never been so good at controlling them, but he was hardly ever hard on you. The words he couldn’t keep from you had always been kind.

“Why not?” You kept your face carefully blank, but the hurt still edged into your voice.

“Because you’re leaving,” he snapped. Neither of you were walking now.

“If this is your way of asking me to stay, you’s really mucking it up,” you said cooly. He could see a gleam in your eyes, but you had taken a few steps back. He couldn’t tell if it was a sheen of anger or a layer of unshed tears. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

He swallowed a few times, but that lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. At least it gave him a minute to think. “I’m not asking you to stay,” he said. Your face fell, giving him the courage to finish. “I’m asking you to come back.”

You looked at him, maybe, almost hopeful. “Why should I come back?”

“Because there are people here who love you. Me, most of all,” he said. He tried to smile, but it felt like the anxiety had frozen his face. The effort almost hurt. “I just want you to come back for me.”

“What if, hypothetically,” you said with a small smile, “I started saving up money. I would still come to visit, but it would mostly be writing letters.”

His heart started to sink. He looked down at his feet, trying to hold back an unexpected wave of grief. If he cried now, he would never forgive himself. “Okay.”

“And then, hypothetically, in a few years, I might have enough money for a wedding.”

He looked up at you, surprised. “A wedding?”

“Hypothetically,” you repeated. You were grinning now, wringing your hands together. “It would take a while, and I would understand if you found somebody else -”

“Please,” he scoffed, giddy. “You’s the one who’d find somebody else.”

You stepped closer, grabbed him hand. “Never. There has never been anybody else, and if you say yes - hypothetically, of course - there never will be.”

“Okay,” he said. “Write me. Come back when you can. We’ll both save, and someday -”

You kissed him then, in the dying lights of New York City. If Albert cried at all, you certainly wouldn’t be telling anybody. If you cried, Albert supposed that it was understandable. Hypothetically, you would both be very happy someday.


	11. One Man's Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9\. We’re hiding from the authorities and it’s very close quarters in here, I can feel your body against mine.

“Is it just me, or does this seem like the perfect time to kiss?”

“You have got to be kidding me,” you whispered. It was borderline a snarl, really, and though you usually would have been thrilled to be so close to Jack Kelly, he deserved your tone.

“Oh, come on,” he whispered back. “Don’t tell me that you haven’t been thinking about it. I’m laying right on top of you.”

“In a dumpster.”

“It’s not like the Lodge smells that much better.”

Earlier in the day, when getting stuck in the rain seemed like the worst case scenario, you would have said yes to kissing Jack. After all, you had wanted something to happen with him for ages, and sometimes you thought that he felt the same way. There were lingering glances, prolonged touches, and plenty of flirty jokes. Jack was always a flirt, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t mean it, right? You would never have imagined that there was a situation that would make him seem unappealing.

That had been before the fight. It had started with a small scuffle, the way everything with the Delanceys did. Some punches, some insults, all standard procedure. Standard, at least, until somebody threw a rock, shattered a store window, and the police showed up.

Everybody scattered. You ended up running through a backstreet with Jack, Henry, and Smalls. That street split off into two directions, and when Jack grabbed your hand to pull you one way, you followed him blindly. Most people did, and though it often proved to be idiotic until Davey came to fix everything, you did so confidently. This was Jack Kelly. He was practically the king of New York, in a roundabout, poor way.

You were an idiot.

He led you into a dead end street. The wall was too high to climb, and the alleyway was empty aside from a few small, damp boxes and a dumpster.

You gaped at him, hardly able to speak. Your silence must have spoken volumes, since he gave you a sheepish grin. “I think we got far enough away,” he said.

You heard shouting from a block or so over; clearly the voices of grown men. Footsteps pounded, and though you couldn’t be sure they were coming for you, the bet seemed safe.

Still breathless, all you could do was flip Jack the bird.

“Okay, not far enough.” He grabbed your hand again, threw open the lid of the dumpster, and hoisted you in. He jumped in after you, pinning you into the trash, and pulled the lid down over you.

The smell had been suffocating, and something wet beneath you was leaking into your clothes. Honestly, though you would never have admitted it to anybody, you had imagined him on top of you before. Honestly, and this you would admit to anybody, you could say with complete confidence that you had never imagined him pinning you down in a pile of trash.

“Jack,” you had said, “I hate you.”

“Understandable,” he had whispered back.

In some strange way, it broke the tension. Yes, you were stuck in a dumpster until the two of you could be sure that leaving wouldn’t get you arrested. Really, though, that just meant that it could not possibly get worse. It only made sense to pass the time by talking. You swapped dirty jokes, came up with plans to get back at the Delanceys, and theorized who had thrown the rock. Probably Les, you concluded. The kid meant well, but was the worst person to have backing you up in a fight. He wasn’t afraid to throw a punch, but for every punch he landed, there was at least one that he botched.

Eventually, conversation just turned to life. “Davey lends me books,” you confided.

“Dave? Really? What kind of books?” Jack sounded gobsmacked, as though it had never occurred to him that they had a friend with an actual education.

“Every kind.” You would take whatever he had, devour it, and trade it back for something new. You didn’t always understand what they meant, but Davey could usually clarify.

“Why?”

You tried to shrug, but pretty much all of you was stuck underneath Jack. “I want more than this.”

He laughed. “More than a dumpster? Shocking.”

You grinned, and though you couldn’t see his face, you thought he was smiling back. “More than all of my life, I guess. More than selling papers, more than sharing a room with a dozen other kids. More than living from meal to meal.”

“More than the Newsies,” he concluded. There was a note of understanding, but more of his tone was a kind of betrayal.

“No,” you corrected. “More than being a Newsie, but not more than the Newsies. I will always want to have you. All of you,” you hastily corrected.

“I’ll always - we’ll always want to have you, too,” he said.

You had flushed with pleasure, thinking that maybe this wasn’t so bad. It was Jack, after all. Jack, saying that he would always want to have you. Then he ruined it by saying that you should kiss.

“It doesn’t matter how the Lodge smells. The first time I kiss you will not be in a dumpster,” you said.

“But there will be a first time?” You could hear the smile in his voice.

“We’ll see,” you said with a smile.

The longer you were in the dumpster, the less you blamed him for thinking about kissing. The place was disgusting, but he was laying right on top of you. He couldn’t pull his weight, so all of his hard lines and soft curves pressed against yours. Time did not steal the novelty of it, and the longer you thought about the contact, the less satisfying it became.

“Do you think we can leave yet?” Surely hours had passed. Surely nobody was looking for you anymore.

“Probably,” he sighed, and pushed off the lid of the dumpster.

 

 

It was not your normal bath day, but you thought that it was worth the splurge. You reeked, and you needed to wash off the feeling of unidentifiable dumpster slime.

You miserably threw all of the clothes you had been wearing away. You could wash them, but they were too stained to wear out and about. They were lost causes, though you couldn’t afford to replace them.

When you left the bathroom, still dripping wet, you saw Jack in the hallway. He had already bathed. His hair gleamed, and you kept your eyes on the shine of it. You didn’t look at his eyes, and he didn’t look into yours. His eyes settled on the mangy towel in your hands. It had been an awful lot easier to talk in the dark of the dumpster, and now that you were out, he was harder to face.

Finally, he smiled at your towel. “You’s much cuter when you aren’t covered in garbage.”

You laughed. “You’s much smoother before you’ve been trapped in close proximity with somebody.”

He raised his hands, mock offended. “Hey, you turned me down.”

“I said that I wouldn’t have my first kiss with you in a dumpster. That’s a ‘not yet’ at the very worst.”

“We ain’t in a dumpster anymore,” he said thoughtfully.

“Very true,” you agreed. You still wanted to kiss him. You supposed that if you still wanted to kiss a boy after seeing him bathed in dumpster juice and stained an uncomfortable yellow, it was probably worth a shot. “Jack?”

His gaze flickered to your face. “Yeah?”

“I don’t really hate you. I think that you’s kind of great.”

He smiled. “Understandable.” With that, he grabbed your face with both hands and dragged your lips to his. He smelled like cheap soap and faintly of paint, as though he had absorbed the scent into his pores.

You pulled back. “You’re a total pain in my butt, but one that I want.”

“Y/N, you’s ruining the moment.”

“Like, you definitely belong in a dumpster, but they say that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, so -”

He was laughing now, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “If you don’t shut up, I will take it back about wanting to have you.”

“You really won’t,” you said with a smile. “You locked yourself in a box of trash to spend time with me.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” he said. He kissed you again as though he was soothing a hurt, and in a way, he was. “But I would, if you were into that sort of thing.”

“No,” you said with a grin. “No, I don’t want any future kisses to happen in a dumpster, either.” You kissed him again to swallow his response, savoring the feel of his body against yours with nothing urgent or disgusting to get in the way.


	12. Timer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race - 12. We were pretending to be lovers but I’m not pretending anymore and I have to know if you feel the same way

“I need your help with the Vanessa situation.” Race’s declaration was accompanied by slamming his book shut. A few other kids in the library shot him dirty looks, but he only had eyes for you.

“Do you mean the fact that she wants to ask you out?” You kept filling out the history study guide, not terribly bothered by Race’s intensity. A friend of yours had a very public crush on Race, and she had been telling people that she wanted to ask him to the Homecoming Dance in a few weeks. She’d been talking to people about asking him out for ages, but you supposed that she hadn’t had the courage to go through with it until there was an event for it.

“This is a serious situation, Y/N. I don’t want to go out with her.”

“Just say no, then,” you said. You had to fight back a smile. Everything was a situation with Race. Life was extreme for him, whether he was experiencing a big presentation or the first crunchy leaves of the fall.

He put a hand over your papers to force you to look up at him. “I can’t.”

That did get your attention. “Why not?”

“She’s been telling everybody about it so I can’t say no without making her look stupid,” he said bitterly. “If I say no, everybody will talk about it.”

That was true. You weren’t sure that that had been her intention; maybe she had just been too excited to keep it to herself. Nevertheless, she had effectively made a performance out of it. If Race didn’t play along, she really would be a joke. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Go to the dance with me,” he said with an almost shy smile.

“What?”

He waved off your surprise. “We probably would have danced together at some point anyway, right? Now we just get food together with my friends first, hang out there, and take some pictures.”

“That doesn’t seem like it would make her not ask you out later, though,” you mused. Sure, he could say no to the dance. That didn’t give him an excuse for later on.

His face froze in that smile, clearly not feeling the happiness he pasted on. “I have a plan for that, too.”

“I feel like saying no is easier than what you’re trying to do here,” you said. Race was notorious for overthinking things, and though it made for some fun schemes, it made life harder, too.

“We have to fake date up until the dance,” he said. Rightfully assuming you were going to say no, he rushed on. “Just a few weeks! We play all infatuated, go to the dance together, and ‘break up’ after. You get all weepy, confide in Vanessa about it all, and then she’s obligated by Girl Code not to date me.”

“I’m breaking Girl Code by dating you at all,” you huffed.

“Did she tell you explicitly that she likes me? No? Then you can just say that you didn’t know.”

You thought it over. You and Race weren’t all that close, but you did like being around him. You’d hang out a couple of times, call it dating, and go to a dance. He was right; if he had asked you to dance there, you would have said yes. You and Vanessa weren’t so close that you would normally mourn about boy problems together, but it you did talk to her about it, she would probably avoid him on principle.

“Nobody could know that it’s fake,” you said. If anybody knew, it might get around. Vanessa would never talk to you again. 

He beamed. You weren’t sure that he knew the effect his smile could have. There were plenty of people who would have loved to go out with him just to be on the receiving end. “Totally. Our lips are sealed. So, want to get ice cream after school on Friday?”

You sighed, putting out your hand to shake. “It’s a date.”

 

 

You had to hand it to him; ice cream was a great idea. First of all, ice cream was kind of the greatest thing to have ever happened, ever. Even if it wasn’t for the “Vanessa Situation,” you probably would have agreed to go out for ice cream with him just for the food.

That was definitely the only reason you would have said yes. For sure.

Aside from good food, though, was the fact that on a Friday afternoon, plenty of classmates would be there too. People would see you together, so word might spread by Monday. Vanessa would hear, so you and Race being together wouldn’t be connected to the dance at all.

You wrinkled your nose at Race’s Razzle. “There are no words for how weird that is.”

“Nerd Razzles are good, Y/N.” He took in a massive spoonful, smirking at you before dramatically letting his eyes flutter closed. “Mmmmmmm.”

“I’m disgusted. I’m breaking up with you.”

He grinned. “You would never. Here, try some.”

He held out a spoonful, but you recoiled. “I’m not eating off of your spoon. That was just in your mouth.”

“C’mon,” he said. His eyes were pleading, and the message was clear - I won’t make you, and it’s fine if you don’t, but this would totally sell it.

You sighed. He was right - you could see people watching you, and if you ate off of his spoon, it would speak volumes. Race and Y/N, out for ice cream, sharing. Totally a couple, right? You took the spoon and stuck it in your mouth. Chewing the ice cream, you waited for something gag-worthy. Instead, you got the creamy ice cream with tangy candy, and though it was strange, it was weirdly good.

“Right?” He took the spoon back, beaming at you.

“I’ll stick to mine,” you said, and when you smiled at him, you saw a few classmates behind him take a picture.

 

 

When you slammed your locker shut the following Wednesday, Vanessa was on the other side. “I didn’t know that you were dating Race.”

You plastered on a bashful smile, hopefully alight with that glow of new happiness. “Yeah, we’ve been going out for a while.” You made a mental note to ask Race how long you should say you were dating. You hadn’t discussed it.

Vanessa looked a little hurt, but she was in a tight spot. You would have to be a real piece of work to date a guy so a friend couldn’t. She couldn’t prove that you knew she liked him, and to tell you now would be a bad friend move.

Not that you were being a great friend either. You could only be a good friend to Race or Vanessa right now, and you had chosen Race. Seeing her downcast face, you tried to tell yourself that you were doing her a favor. She wouldn’t be rejected this way. She was hurt now, but not heartbroken.

“Well,” she said, “you guys make a cute couple.” Her smile was not totally genuine, but you could tell that she meant it.

An arm came around your waist, and you turned your head just in time to catch a glimpse of Race as he kissed you on the cheek.

“Hey,” he said. When he smiled at you, you couldn’t tell that it was a farce. If you hadn’t known that it was a fake relationship, you might have thought that this was a real boyfriend coming to say hello to his girlfriend, happy to see her and unable to keep his hands off her.

The two of you had gone out again the day before. You went to the bowling alley, though nobody you knew was there. Race just liked bowling, and when you watched him, you could see why. He was good, and he danced to the music. He looked stupid in the bowling shoes, and he made you laugh. You tried to split the food bill with him, but he refused to let you.

His words echoed in your ears when you looked at him now. “If I’m going to take you out, I’m going to pay.” You tried to tell him that he didn’t have to fund a fake relationship, but he gave you an oddly serious look. “Every time people start dating, they know there might be a timer on it. Ours is just agreed upon. I’m paying.”

“Hi,” you said. You smiled back at him, and his words almost made it easier. Don’t think of it as a fake relationship. Think of it as a relationship with a timer.

You remembered that Vanessa had been there, but when you turned back to her, she was gone.

 

 

The weeks flew by effortlessly. You hung out with Race’s friends, and he hung out with yours. You did school work together, just like always. You got food together, went to movies, and texted. Sometimes you put pictures on Instagram, but sometimes you just went out.

You weren’t totally happy to be having a lot of fun. At least if it had sucked, the dance would have been a relief. You would have been excited to part ways. Instead, you were happy. If this had been an indefinite relationship, you would have been happy to keep going. You would have been giddy to go to a dance with him, and you would have spent hours looking for a dress that would knock his socks off. If you hadn’t set an ending, you might have thought there wasn’t one.

The timer continued to count down.

The day of the dance, you got a text from Race.

Race: what color is your dress?

Y/N: did you seriously not pick out a tie yet

Race: i was busy

You grinned and sent him a picture of the dress. You were kind of excited for the dance. You knew that it would be stupid and you would probably decide to leave early to get food with Race, but it would be nice to have somebody who made it fun. Somebody to dance with, and somebody to make fun of everything with.

Race cleaned up nicely. He was always cute, but he was handsome in his suit. 

“I like the vest,” you commented. You were only just stepping outside, so he hadn’t had time to take you in yet.

He tugged on it, pleased. “If I’m going to sweep you off your feet, I’m doing it right.” Then, looking up at you, the smugness fell from his face. “Consider me swept.” The words were almost shaky, and you beamed at him.

You took his arm, preparing for the typical parent photo shoot. “If you asked for a date, you’re getting a date.”

 

 

As expected, the dance was cheesy. The music was subpar, but the dancing was fun. You always had somebody to dance with, whether you were with Race or some group of friends. There were several slow dances with Race, but one stuck out to you.

You turned slowly, arms around his neck. It all felt nice. You didn’t know where to look, you couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on your waist, and you hoped that you didn’t smell sweaty. All typical dance stuff. Then you looked over his shoulder and saw Vanessa.

She was dancing with a boy the year below you with a bright smile. His hands were low on her waist, she had herself pressed close to him, and she looked happy. By chance, her eyes met yours, and the smile didn’t dim. She shot you a thumbs up before looking back to her partner.

When you looked back at Race, it was as though all of your guilt was gone. Sometimes you had been able to forget about it, but then there would be a moment where all you could think about was how much of a betrayal this was. Vanessa was okay, you were at a dance with Race, and everybody was happy.

 

 

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. There was dancing. There was food. There were bright lights. When Race drove you home, you bellowed along with the songs on the radio. It wasn’t until you stood on your doorstep that it all hit you.

The timer was going off. The dance was over.

You gave him a shaky smile, clutching your bag with stiff fingers. “I don’t think I’ll have to get all weepy for Vanessa. I think she’s moved on to somebody new.”

Race smiled, and in the dim glow of the streetlights, it seemed melancholy. “That’s great. Really great.”

You swallowed thickly. This wasn’t how it should end. In another life, he would have kissed you at the door. You would have been looking forward to the next dance, or the prom, or a million other things. “So, what’s the plan now?”

“How about ice cream tomorrow?” His question was nonchalant.

“No, I mean the timeline. The dance is over, so what next?”

“I know,” Race said. He met your eyes, and you realized that he was being serious. There wasn’t an ounce of humor in his words. “I’m think ice cream tomorrow, and we can see what happens.”

“What happens,” you echoed. He wasn’t thinking a break up. He was thinking another date, and then who knows? An indefinite timer. A certain relationship with an uncertain timeline.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth; not a real kiss, but a promise of more to come. “I like it. Let’s get ice cream. Nothing gross, though.”

He smiled again, relief and delight evident. “I would never like something gross. I’ve never done a single gross thing in my entire life.”

“What about the time -”

“This is a sacred space, Y/N,” he said. He gestured to your doorstep. “Don’t ruin the moment by telling vicious lies about me.”

You were laughing when you went inside. Ice cream tomorrow. You usually didn’t like not knowing what was ahead of you, but this was the best kind of uncertainty.


	13. Blow Me Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race - 9. We’re hiding from the authorities and it’s very close quarters in here, I can feel your body against mine.

“Just a quick walk,” Race promised, practically skipping down the sidewalk. Maybe he would have skipped outright, if it wasn’t for the layer of ice coating everything. He was eerily graceful, but even he had limits to the balance he could keep in the dead of winter. “Get in, get the money, and get out.”

You frowned, but it was mostly to keep yourself from smiling. “If I get arrested, I’m never forgiving you. Actually, I won’t have the chance. My dad will kill me.”

“That’s the point!” He paused, rethinking. “Wait - no. What I mean is, we won’t get arrested. Nobody would expect you to be gambling, so when you go to pick up the money, nobody will suspect a thing.”

Race was a habitual, uncontrollable gambler. When he won, it made him believe that his luck had changed and he had it made. When he lost, he felt the need to re-earn what he had lost. It was a nasty habit, but the real problem was that betting was illegal. Earlier in the week he had laid bets on today’s raises, and, miraculously, he won. He needed to go pick up the money, but he thought that the best way to get it was to use somebody else.

You, as the child of one of the wealthier families, were practically untouchable. You knew it, Race knew it, and you weren’t the sort to say no to Race. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t a stupid plan.”

“It’s a stupid plan that ends with us getting pie,” he promised. “On me.”

As if you would let him blow his money on pie. No, you would definitely buy it yourself. “Fine.”

Getting in was easy enough. Bets were made behind the ticket booth, and now that the sun was going down, the crowds were nearly all gone. All you had to do was walk to the guy with the money, drop Race’s name, and take the money. You had a saddle bag to carry it, which you would hand off to Race, and you would be in the clear. Easy as pie. 

Or, at least, it should have been. Race, who had planned to wait outside, suddenly looked around at the people who were left.

“I’s coming in,” he said.

“What?” You looked at him, surprised. The plan may have been stupid, but it would work. In and out, no trouble. If he was there, it would change everything. “No, wait here.”

“I ain’t sending you in there,” he said. He nodded toward the men surrounding the bookie, who all seemed dark and angry. “They’s gonna eat you alive.”

“And, what, you being there will stop that?” Your words were a little harsher than you intended, but you meant it. Race was the person most likely to be grabbed by the police if they came, and he would never win a fight. He was strong, but outnumbered.

“Better than leaving you alone,” he announced. He marched toward them, giving you no choice but to hurry after him.

Your heart was in your throat as you got closer. He was right; these guys could swallow you whole. Having Race was deceptively comforting. He was already talking when you got there, voice raised to be heard above everybody who lingered.

“Racetrack Higgins, to pick up my winnings.”

Things quieted down; Race ignored dirty looks from the people around you. You tried to seem as nonchalant as he did, but it was difficult. You were used to passive hatred, not outright disgust.

Get in. Get the money. Get out.

You were in. Race was cradling the money in eager hands. All you had to do was get out, but words shouted across the crowd killed all hope of that.

“Police!”

For a fraction of a second, everything went still. The wind whistled through the mass of bodies, and you met Race’s eyes. He did not look panicked, quite the contrary. He looked old and calm.

Everybody moved at once. It was not like you had always imagined a stampede; you pictured everybody moving as one. You pictured a crowd making up one body. In reality, it was full of shoving. You felt like you were being swallowed whole. You were thrown one way and another by people trying to squeeze past one another or run against the current. Just when you thought you would lose your footing and be lost under the feet of the same people who had just wished you would leave, a hand took the fingers you did not remember reaching out.

“Y/N! Come on!”

You followed blindly, feeling that it was Race rather than seeing the truth of it. His fingers were the only thing keeping you from falling into a void of bottomless panic. Hitting open air was almost like hitting a brick wall, making you stagger against emptiness where you thought there would be stone.

Race had not led you away from the track. Instead of taking you out into the street of New York, he pulled you further in, toward the stables. He dragged you to a pile of boxes, helping you climb up them without explaining.

“Race, what -”

“Up the boxes,” he commanded. “Up the boxes, and through the window.”

Looking up, you saw a small window. Knowing that fighting Race would only leave to getting caught, you clambered through the window and dropped several feet into a pile of hay. You rolled out of the way, just in time to avoid Race dropping right on top of you.

He put a hand over your mouth, more as a precaution than a necessary step. You sat there, maybe for minutes or maybe for hours, until everything outside was dead silent. Finally, he pulled away, relief flooding his features.

“See? I told you I wouldn’t get you arrested.”

You socked him in the arm, surprised by the stiffness in your fingers. “Seriously, Race?”

“Sorry,” he repented. “I should never have asked you to come. Let’s get out of here. I’s thinking maybe coffee instead of pie. Something hot.” He walked over to the door of the stables and pushed. Nothing happened. Frowning, he pushed harder. He shot you a sheepish look.

“Do not tell me it’s locked,” you said. He said nothing. “Racetrack Higgins, that door is not locked. Do not tell me that we are locked in a stable in the middle of January.”

“If you want, I could tell you about what the papes said this morning instead, but I ain’t sure what else to say,” he said.

“Okay,” you said. “Okay, we just have to get back out the window.” You stood on tiptoe reaching for the bottom of the frame. It was just out of reach. “Race, I need you to -”  
  
You stopped. Even if he gave you a boost, you wouldn’t be able to reach him to pull him out too. If you went to somebody to unlock the doors, you would be in trouble with the police for trespassing. One of you was getting out, or neither. You weren’t leaving Race alone, no matter how much you hated him right then.

“Oh my God.” You sank back into the pile of hay. You had been feeling alright before, but now that you knew there was no getting out of the cold, it seemed a million times worse.

“Sorry,” he offered again. This time, there was a little fear coloring his features. His clothes were thin and frayed; they wouldn’t keep him warm at all. 

“We’re screwed,” you said.

 

 

“Do you think they’ll be back in the morning?” Your question broke the longstanding silence, out of place in the frigid night.

“I hope so,” he said weakly. When you looked over at him, miserable, he rushed to correct himself. “They have to, right? They have to clean up before the races next week.”

He didn’t say that they had all of next week to do the cleaning. He didn’t have to. You knew it as well as him. If they didn’t come in the morning, there would be no point to them hurrying. Lasting until morning would be hard enough; you wouldn’t last longer.

You looked Race over. He had his fingers firmly pressed under the waistband of his pants to try to warm them up, but he still shook. His lips were a little blue in the dark. You considered your options. You were dressed warmer than he was. Should you give him your coat? He would never take it. He was chivalrous, in his own way. Proud.

You crawled over to Race. He blinked up at you, sluggishly surprised. “What’re you doing?”

You pulled his hands from his pants and spread his legs out. You sat yourself firmly between his legs and leaned your back into his chest. He clumsily wrapped his arms around you and you gripped his hands in yours. “Warming you up.”

He held you a little closer. “Thanks,” he murmured into your ear.

 

 

“Y/N?” Race’s voice shook you from the light doze you had slipped into. You almost hated him for it; you had been less aware of the cold. Maybe that was why he did it.

“Yeah?”

“Just making sure you’s still - still awake.” Still alive, he didn’t say.

“Is this how you thought you’d go?” Your question was bleak, but you were interested.

“Yeah, actually,” he said. 

You turned your head to try to look at him, but you couldn’t do it without pulling away. “Really?”

“Sure,” he said. “It’s hard to stop being a Newsie. Lots of kids end up living on the street after they age out.” His arms tightened around your waist, and when he spoke again, his voice trembled. “I am so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted you to get stuck here with me.”

“Hey,” you said, surprised. “I didn’t want to be here, but I wouldn’t want to be here with anybody else. If I’m going to di- be stuck with anyone, I would always want to be stuck with you.”

He huffed a smile into your hair. “Yeah, me too.”

 

 

“Favorite color?” You and Race had resorted to asking questions to stay awake.

“Blue,” he said without a moment of hesitation.

You wanted to say blue was your favorite color too, picturing the color of his eyes. You thought about the light blue of his eyes all the time. At the same time, you wouldn’t want that color on somebody else. It was the eyes, but it was also the boy who wore them. “What are you going to do with the money?” 

He hummed into your hair, and you could have sworn that he was stalling.

“Really, what?” You were almost excited to hear his answer. Maybe it was something funny, like saving up for a pony, or something interesting, like saving up to go back to school.

“I wanted,” he said. His voice caught, and you realized that he was fighting back tears. “Sorry - this is stupid.”

“C’mon,” you coaxed. “I won’t laugh, promise.”

“I wanted to take you out for pie.”

“I know that, stupid. You told me that while we were walking here. Why is that embarrassing?”

“No,” he said. “I wanted to take you out for pie. We would come here, and I would take you out to eat. I would walk you home. Kiss you at the end of the street, where your folks wouldn’t see.”

“Oh,” you said. “Oh.” A date. He wanted to take you out on a date. All of this had been a ploy to take you out, and it had ended with you stuck in a stable in the middle of the night.

“Yeah,” he croaked.

“Well,” you said. “When we get out of here, you’re gonna have to give me a huge piece of pie. Massive.”

“Right,” he said weakly.

“And that kiss is going to have to blow me away,” you said. Really, kissing Race at all would blow you away. You had been trying to file away how his body felt against your this entire time, though the cold had been making it difficult. He was long and lean, all hard plains against your softer body. You could touch him for the rest of your life, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

He smiled into your hair. “It will.”

 

 

You had slipped into a doze again when the door started to rattle. Your head shot up, aching immensely as it did. Race’s arms hadn’t loosened a jot.

A man stepped in through the now open door. He didn’t see you at first, and you didn’t say anything. You needed to leave, but you weren’t sure what he would do when he saw you. When he did, he startled a little, but he didn’t yell. That seemed like a good sign.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Having a party,” you said. You wanted to sound confident, maybe even brave, but your teeth were chattering.

“Two of you?” He came closer, and he didn’t look angry. He looked sad, really.

“Yes,” you said. You jostled Race, and for a second, you were afraid he wouldn’t wake up at all. Finally there was a sharp inhale, followed by a long groan.

The man stood there, looking at two frozen kids, and came to help you stand. “Come on. I live across the street. I own the track. There’s a fire lit; come on.”

 

 

The man had indeed come to clean the stables, and he didn’t ask any questions. “I think you two have been punished enough,” he said dryly. “If you need a place to sleep, don’t pick my stables again.”

He left the two of you in front of the fire, covered in blankets and cradling thick slices of bread slathered with butter.

“Sorry,” Race said again. As the color in his cheeks returned, the horror in his eyes grew. “I’s so sorry, Y/N.”  
“It’s fine.”

“It isn’t! You could have died, and it would have been all my fault. You never should have been there,” he said. His eyes gleamed, and you couldn’t bear to see tears fall.

You reached over with achy hands and took one of his. “The pie had better be awesome, and the kiss will have to blow me away,” you said again.

“You meant that?” The smile in his voice was infectious, but you kept your face schooled into a solemn frown.

“Of course I was serious. If you take it back now, I will never forgive you.”

He just smiled at your joined hands. “I can do that. I’m going to blow you away.”

“Nothing this exciting,” you added. “I could do with some quiet dates after this.”

“I ain’t good at quiet,” he said, “but I can try.”

The fire crackled merrily, warming your outsides almost as much as holding hands warmed your insides.


	14. Three Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romeo - 12. We were pretending to be lovers but I’m not pretending anymore and I have to know if you feel the same way

“Please,” Romeo crooned. “Come on, Y/N, it’ll be great.”

“I don’t want to date you,” you said evenly. If you could have walked away, you would have, but one of the downsides of working behind the counter was that there was nowhere to go when flirts came around. Romeo, the biggest flirt of all, was doing so with renewed vigor.

His face went tight for a second, but you ignored him in favor of restocking the muffins. You worked at the local coffee shop. You went to school with Romeo and his friends, but you only really saw them after school. Your shift started almost immediately after classes, and the boys would come in fifteen minutes later, like clockwork. He would flirt, you would shoot him down, and it would repeat the next day.

He put a hand on the glass window where the muffins went. You scowled at it; you would have to wash off his fingerprints later. He was serious when he spoke again, and though that was uncommon, you hardly cared. “Please. The guys made a bet, and if I can’t get you to go out with me, I have to buy all of their coffee for a month.”

“You shouldn’t have made a bet if you couldn’t afford to lose it.”

“If I win, they buy my order for a month,” he said. He grinned at you, the solemnity gone. “If it sweetens the deal at all, I’ll add a drink for you to my order.”

“I get a free drink every shift,” you said.

“I’ll double my tips.”

“You don’t tip,” you said bitterly.

“Then I’ll start tipping!” He reached for your hand, but you pulled it out of reach. “Seriously, I need your help. I’ll give you -” he stopped to rifle through his pockets. “Twenty dollars!”

You looked at the money, thoughtful. You didn’t want to date him. You didn’t want to talk to him. But if you agreed, maybe he would stop talking to you after. That, plus the added money, seemed like a worthwhile deal. “What would I have to do, hypothetically?”

“Just go on a few dates with me,” he said eagerly. “They don’t even have to be real, just us hanging out so my friends agree that I win.”

“A few?”

“Three,” he corrected. “Three dates, and I’ll pay you.”

You stuck out a gloved hand for him to shake. He took it, holding it longer than was strictly necessary. “Deal.”

 

 

Romeo had asked for your number, but you had refused to give it to him. When he took you out for the three not-dates, he would have to meet you at the coffee shop. You did not want him trying to get friendly, or believing that he could contact you just for fun.

When he picked you up for the first not-date, he cheerfully said that you would be going to an art exhibit in the city.

“It’s outside, so we can walk around, eat, and look at the art. It’ll be great,” he said.

It wasn’t that the exhibit wasn’t cool - it totally was. In a different situation, you would have been stoked to be there. It was Romeo that bothered you. He was friendly, but kind of too friendly. He acted as though you were there with him because you wanted to be.

You stayed silent when you could, only offering answers when you couldn’t avoid them.

“Isn’t this cool?”

You stayed silent.

“If I had money, I would totally be a patron for artists. Maybe I’d even open my own art studio or something, but provide all of the paint and stuff, you know? I’m garbage at painting, but it would still be cool for them,” he said distantly. He smiled as though he could already picture his studio, nestled in among all of the other buildings on the street.

It wasn’t a bad idea, but you offered nothing more than a grunt.

“Do you paint?”

“Don’t,” you said. “Don’t try to make small talk.”

To his credit, he did as you asked. You walked from booth to booth, peering at easels and admiring work that you couldn’t make in your wildest dreams. “You know,” he finally said, “you might like this more if you let yourself have fun.”

“You know,” you mimicked, “I might enjoy this more if you aren’t here.”

“Y/N,” he said. He said it sadly, and the feeling was contagious for a split second. You shook it off when he kept going. “I know that this is for a bet, but I already told you that this doesn’t have to be a real date. We can just be two friends, hanging out. You don’t have to act like I shot your dog.”

You considered that on the subway. He wasn’t wrong. You still had two dates to go, and you could either hate him and the time you spent together, or you could play along. You could answer his questions, and you could ask them in return. Of course he had to make small talk; you hadn’t given him anything else to talk about.

“I don’t paint,” you finally said, and he beamed at you. You tentatively smiled back.

 

 

For the second not-date, Romeo took you to see a horror movie. 

“If you get scared,” he said with a cheeky grin, “you can hold my hand.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks.” You turned away, giving him the chance to just look at his phone, but he kept talking.

“Y/N? I know I should have said this last time, but thanks for doing this.”

You shrugged. “I needed the money.”

“So do I,” he said. “But I know that you didn’t want to go out with me, so I really appreciate this.”

“It’s not just you,” you admitted. “Nothing is more annoying than being hit on at work.”

“Really?” He looked honestly perplexed.

“There is nothing less attractive than being hit on when I can’t leave and it interferes with something I need to be doing.”

“Oh.” He blinked at you, looking guilty. “I’m really sorry. Seriously. I didn’t know that it caused problems.”

You offered him a hesitant smile. Okay. He apologized. He wasn’t just a jerk who liked being annoying; he just needed to be told where the lines were. “Don’t worry about it - just don’t do it again.” The lights went down. When you sat back in your seat, you felt much better about being there.

The movie wasn’t great. It relied too heavily on jump scares, but they were all predictably placed. You weren’t scared, but much to your delight, Romeo was. He jumped every time something happened, occasionally even when nothing happened.

Once, during a calm part of the movie, you leaned over to whisper in his ear. “And here I thought I was the one who might get scared.”

He looked at you, opening his mouth to answer, but there was a bang on screen. He jumped up, uttering a small shriek, and instinctively grabbed your hand. His wide eyes focused on the screen, but yours zeroed in on your hands. Should you shake it off? 

No. You had promised yourself that you would try to be nicer. You had told him what bothered you about him, and he had apologized. You didn’t have to be rude now, too. You let him hold your hand, and after a few minutes, found that you didn’t mind it. His hand was warm and soft, and when he squeezed it again during the next scary part, you squeezed back.

 

 

For the third not-date, you just stayed at the coffee shop.

“Because you know what you like here,” he said proudly.

“Because it’s so much fun to eat at a place where I know all of the workers,” you said with a wry smile.

He gaped at you, pointing a good natured finger. “You just made a joke, and it was hardly mean.”

You tried to stifle the smile, but it was a little more genuine. “Isn’t it funny how a joke dies when you start talking about how it’s a joke?”

“Oh, and you’re back.” He put a hand over his heart, mock relieved. “For a second I was scared that you might actually have a nice time. That would really ruin this thing we have going.”

You laughed out loud, and when he smiled at you, your smile only grew.

He suggested that you do the date kind of like speed dating.

(“So I only have to stay for a few minutes?”

“So we can just ask questions, Y/N, Jesus. Humor me.”)

You just fired questions back and forth giving short, quick answers.

“Do you think bacon belongs on donuts?”

“If you could be famous for anything at all, what would it be?”

“Who’s your favorite ninja turtle?”

You learned about his friends; he talked about them a lot, and they seemed like fun people to know. He learned about your family. You laughed until you choked on a croissant when he told you about the time he locked himself in his own locker for three hours, and he tried to convince you that you shouldn’t be drinking Mountain Dew if you already knew that mice could be dissolved in it.

In short, you had fun. Romeo was fun to talk to when you weren’t stuck behind a counter, and once you stopped thinking about how he wanted to date you, it was easier to imagine dating him.

It wasn’t that you wanted to date him, exactly. No. It was more like you could see his dateable qualities. He had a nice smile, and he made you laugh. He was truly awful at flirting, but that was its own type of charming. He didn’t try to hold your hand again, but you found yourself looking at his hands a lot. Surely, you weren’t wanting him to try, right? Yeah, they were soft. Yeah, your hand had been cold for ages after letting go after the movie. You were probably just remembering it, and mixing memories up with hoping.

Hopefully.

When the last sort of not-date ended, you were left confused. You had done it. You had helped him win the bet, and once his friends started paying for his drink every day, you would get your twenty dollars. Somehow, that didn’t seem satisfying anymore. You had let yourself have fun, which seemed like a strange thing to accept money for, and you were a little disappointed that it was ending.

 

 

One of the other boys, with blonde, curly hair and a vape pen in hand, rolled his eyes when he bought Romeo a coffee the next day.

“You really had to go out with him?” The words were bitter, but he smiled at you. “You couldn’t have held out long enough to get me free drinks all month?”

You shrugged. “He’s oddly convincing.”

Romeo came up behind the boy and winked at you. “Can’t fight the pull of fate, Race.” When Race left, Romeo slapped a twenty dollar bill down on the table. “Or the pull of cold, hard cash. Fair is fair.”

You pushed it back. “Keep it. I had fun.”

A grin lit his face. “Really? You did?”

“Sure. It was easier to enjoy myself once I let myself.”

He took the money, but folded it and dropped it in the tip jar. “I should start tipping now. You deal with a lot of crap here.”

You sprayed whipped cream on the top of his drink, wrote on the cup, and pushed it to him. “Have a nice day, sir.”

He grinned at that and went to leave. Like you had expected, he took a few steps, looked at the cup, and turned back. “What’s this?”

“My number,” you said. You looked down at the counter, pretending to wipe at a spot. “Do you not recognize a phone number when you see one?”

“Why are you giving me your number?” His effort to keep hope out of his voice was valiant, but unsuccessful.

“I had fun,” you said again. Your cheeks heated up.

“So you want to go on more not-dates?” He lowered his voice so nobody could hear him, thankfully.

You shrugged. “We could do that. Or we could try a real one. Whatever.” Not whatever. Super not whatever. 

“Great,” he beamed. “Great. I’ll text you.” He walked backwards as he spoke, knocking over a chair in the process.

You smiled at him as he righted it. Maybe a little flirting at work wouldn’t be so bad, if it was Romeo doing it.


	15. Hold Me to That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race - 6. Congratulations! One of your dreams has finally come true. Let me give you a big hug and wow, you’re warm…

You refreshed the page again. Again. Again.

“A watched pot never boils, Y/N,” Race said. 

“You literally have the light on in the oven so you can watch the pizza rolls bake, Race,” you said. 

Neither of you looked away from the objects of attention. Race, as usual, had failed to start making food until he was already so hungry that he could hardly bear it. He could snack, sure, but when he knew the pizza rolls were coming, nothing else could satisfy.

You, on the other hand, had been a wreck all day. You had taken an AP class the year before, and today was the day the scores were released. You had no idea what time they would be posted, so you had been glued to the site on your phone all day. Race had tried to distract you, but nothing could free you from the fear that you hadn’t gotten a score high enough to get college credit.

“I really want this,” you said in a small voice.

He looked away from the oven. “Hey, I know. You did great. You studied so hard. I studied so hard, and I wasn’t even in the class.”

You gave him a shaky grin. He had gone over flashcards with you for hours, not complaining nearly as much as he would have if it had been a test for him. He went over vocab words with you until he claimed to be dreaming about them. He helped you make diagrams, go over concepts, and reread sections of the book. 

He had gone so far beyond the expectations you would have for any friend, but he had waved you off every time you tried to thank him. “Keep your thanks. When you get super rich because of the awesome education I’ve given you, you can help me live in the way I expect to become accustomed to.”

He scooched across the kitchen floor to bump his knee against yours. “C’mon. Put down the phone. Eat with me, and we can play a video game. Mario Kart, or maybe Just Dance. When you check again later, it’ll probably be posted. Checking a few minutes late isn’t a big deal.”

You shrugged. “I can’t think about anything else.”

He grinned, leaning in close. “Just try to get lost in my eyes.”

You snorted out a laugh. “Once I have the scores, I’m all yours.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said lightly. You might have taken it as a joke, but he hadn’t pulled away. He just looked at your face, eyes roving over the angles and curves that he already knew by heart.

You and Race had been straddling a strange, almost uncomfortably comfortable line for a few months. You weren’t going out, and neither of you had said anything about wanting to date, but neither of you were dating anybody else either. He studied for the AP exam with you instead of going out with your other friends. You went to every single one of his track meets, no matter how far away they were, with a sign for him. You acted like a couple, but you weren’t a couple.

If he tried to hold you to it, you wouldn’t stop him. On the contrary, you’d help him.

“You did great,” he said again. “Take a break from the stressing, okay? There’s always time for more of it.”

“Okay,” you sighed. “Okay.” You refreshed the page one more time, finger already on the power button, but when the page came back, you shot to your feet. “It’s loading. It’s loading! The scores have been posted!”

Race jumped up, hands in his hair while he watched you, almost as nervous as you were. “Well? What is it?”

You stared at the screen, and when you looked up at him, your eyes were wide. “I got a four.”

“Is that good?” He hopped from one foot to the other, not sure if he should be celebrating or not.

“I got a four,” you repeated. “That’s good. That’s good. I’m getting college credit.”

A smile broke across Race’s face, and he threw his arms around you. “That’s amazing!”

“I got a four.” A slow, thousand watt grin was growing across your face; at least it tried to. Race had you pulled so close that you could hardly move. He was still hopping, so you joined in. “I got a four!”

He whooped with joy, settling back down on the ground so he could hug you properly. Your arms laced around his neck. “That’s amazing,” he mumbled. “I knew you’d get it.”

You smiled up at him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He pressed a sweet kiss onto your nose. He had done it before, usually when he was about to do something so obnoxious that he needed you to be stunned so you wouldn’t stop him. This time, though, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was just the two of you, holding each other, and he lingered against your face.

He brushed his lips against your forehead. He pulled back a hair, as though expecting you to object. When you didn’t, he kissed your eyebrow. Your hairline. Your cheek. Your chin. Just when he came near enough to your lips for your breath to mix with his, a shrill beeping sounded.

You two drew back slightly, confused, before you realized what was happening. “The pizza rolls!”

He let go of you, rolling his eyes. “Ugh. They never finish when I want them, and when I’m having a much better time, they want to come out of the oven. I’m not even hungry anymore!” 

You laughed when his stomach growled, still trying to catch the breath that you had been holding while he held you. “I can tell. We can take a break. There’s always time for more.”

He grinned at you, eyes dancing. “I’ll hold you to that."


	16. Not a Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race - 13. This wasn’t meant to be a date, but we’ve had such a good time and now it’s 2 a.m. and I should really go home…

It was 10 o’clock, you and Race had just gotten out of the movie, and it Was Not A Date. Nope. Not a date. Sure, it was just the two of you. Sure, he had bought your ticket. But it wasn’t a date, because he had invited all of your friends. None of them had been able to come, but the invitation had been extended over the group chat, so it was a movie to be seen amongst friends.

Infinity War, as it turned out, was a heartbreaker of a movie. You walked through the parking lot of the theatre in a daze, not sure what your life was supposed to be like now. What kind of life was worth living when so many of your loves were gone?

“So, what are you doing tonight?” Race’s question broke you from your reverie. He was the only person who could have made you smile after that movie, and it only took the sound of his voice to do so.

“Well, it’s kinda late, so I’ll probably just watch Netflix or something,” you said.

“Or,” he said slowly, “we could go get ice cream.”

“At ten?”

“Ice cream doesn’t have a time limit, Y/N,” he said gravely. 

“No,” you agreed. Ice cream really didn’t. Especially not after your heart had been crushed so thoroughly. “Let’s do this thing.”

 

 

It was midnight, your pint of ice cream was gone, and it Was Not A Date. Sure, you and Race had eaten off of each other’s spoons so you wouldn’t have to choose between two flavors of ice cream. Sure, he bought the food for you. But it was not a date, because in another universe, you would have had a bunch of other friends there.

“So, what are you doing tonight?” Race was kicking a rock to you, and though you tried to time your kick perfectly, you missed by a long shot. The rock skidded across the pavement behind you.

You walked after it. “Definitely too late for anything other than Netflix now.”

“Or,” Race said again. “Or, we could go hang out under a bridge to look like delinquents.”

You laughed. It was a game the two of you liked to play. Nothing ever happened, but you felt kind of cool being out at night with him. He never took you anywhere that he thought could be dangerous, so you knew that your delinquency would be on the lowest level. “Really? It’s getting late.”

“Jesus,” Race said. “Do you seriously think everything has business hours? First ice cream, now fake rebellion? What kind of dream world are you living in, Y/N?”

“A fantasy world where teenagers get home at a respectable time.”

“Preposterous,” he said. “Let’s go.”

 

 

It was two in the morning, you were still out with Race, and it Was Not A Date. You had to remind yourself of it all the time; you kept wanting to hold his hand. You kept getting little flips in your stomach because Race was giving you a piggyback ride.

Your head was resting against his shoulder. You had to fight to keep your eyes open, but he somehow walked without jostling you. “Race?”

“Yeah?” When he spoke, it rumbled through your body. 

“Do you think we should go home?”

“Already?”

You lifted your head a little, but let it thump back down. You felt him laugh. “It’s pretty late. We can hang out again tomorrow, if you want.”

“Really?” He sounded overjoyed, which struck you as a little odd. Absolutely wonderful, but strange.

“Sure. It sucks that nobody else could come, but maybe they can tomorrow,” you said. It did suck that the others had been unavailable; all of them had said that their parents said no, or that they were sick, or other, vaguer reasons. It wasn’t normal for it to be just two people hanging out, but you weren’t complaining. You liked being alone with Race. 

“Yeah, about that,” he said slowly. You wished you could see his face; he sounded very embarrassed.

“What is it?”

“They weren’t busy,” he admitted.

You frowned against his shoulder. Of course they were. They had all said so. “What do you mean?”

“I told them all to say no.”

“Why?” Race had wanted to just hang out with you?

“I didn’t know how to ask you to the movies. I wanted to,” he said hurriedly. “I wanted to, and the others said that I should just go for it, but I kept chickening out. So I texted all of you, and then texted everybody else to have them say no.”

“So you just wanted it to be the two of us?” Say it’s a date, you silently urged. Say it, and it will be.

“More than anything. And it’s been just the two of us, and it’s been so great. I don’t want to go home,” Race said. In the low lights, you could see that his ears were pink.

That was close enough. You pulled your head up, pressed a sleepy kiss against the back of his neck, and laid back down. “Tomorrow, it can be just us. Later today, I guess,” you corrected. “Later today. It’s a date; for real this time.”

You could feel his cheeks curving into a smile. “It’s a date.”


	17. Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert - 8. Oh, my God, I thought you were going to die. Please don’t ever scare me like that again.

Albert was so, so stubborn. In some ways, it was one of your favorite things about him. You loved that he stood by promises. You loved that he was morally unshakable. You loved that he was consistent, and you loved that you never had to doubt your faith in him. He was predictable, in the best possible way.

It was seldom problematic, but it almost always was in games of dares. He would take just about any dare, be it physically hazardous or emotionally traumatizing. In a group of friends like his, that was not an uncommon type of game to play.

Games like that were why Albert had dyed his hair green sophomore year; why Race shaved off his eyebrows; why Romeo dressed up in drag every Friday for a year. The teasing after chickening out could be as terrible as actually doing the dares, so it was often easier to just give in. You loved watching the boys go through with it. You never laughed harder; you never loved your friends more.

Today, however, you were terrified. A few of the boys had gotten their hands on alcohol, and the good-natured dares had escallated to pure foolishness. None of them were hammered yet, but all of them were too loose to see how dangerous they were getting. All of them were stupid with alcohol, and none of the voices of reason were there. Had Davey been there, or even Katherine or Crutchie, the dares would never have escalated beyond streaking. Now there was just you, in no position of power to keep things under control.

“Hey, Al,” Race said devilishly. “Albert, Alfred, Alejandro.”

Albert rolled his eyes, but you could see the eager light in them. “What?”

“I dare you to play chicken.”

You froze. Chicken was a stupid game, no matter what, but now? When Albert was tipsy and his reflexes were jacked up? “Absolutely not, Race.”

“I wasn’t daring you,” Race said. He ruffled your hair. “I was daring Aladdin.”

“To play chicken,” Finch continued, “blindfolded.”

“No!” You grabbed for Albert’s hand, but even with a little liquid courage flowing through your system, you stopped yourself. To hold Albert’s hand was a privilege he had never given you. “Albert, don’t.”

You could see him thinking the dare over. When he was lost in deep thought, he bounced his right leg. The harder he thought, the faster it went. His leg was nearly vibrating now, and you wanted to put a hand on his leg to stop it, as though stopping it would stop him.

“I’m in,” he said with pride. He straightened his beanie, though it was already perfect.

“Al, don’t. Come on, think about this! It’s stupid.” You did grab his hand this time, panic making you brave. “Do something else!”

“It’ll be fine, Y/N,” he said confidently. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you. “Albert, do not accept this dare.”

He put his hands over yours, grinning at you. “I’m accepting the dare. You’re going to feel so stupid when I win.”

“I’m going to feel so terrible when you get hit by a car and die.”

Albert’s eyes, a little glazed before, came into focus. “Do you not think that I can do it?”

“It doesn’t matter if you can do it,” you said firmly. “You shouldn’t.”

“I thought you believed in me,” he said with disappointed surprise. “I would have believed in you.”

It was just the alcohol, you told yourself. It was just the alcohol making him say that. It was the alcohol making him doubt your belief in him, and it was the alcohol making him say he believed in you. It was the alcohol making you blush at his words. It was the alcohol that kept your hands on his cheeks, and it was the alcohol that convinced you that it was a good idea to let your thumb stroke his cheekbone, just once.

After a second, his eyes painfully clear, Albert took his hands off of yours. The evening was warm, but your hands felt cold without his. He walked away, heading toward the other other boys and the road by the park. “If you do this,” you called after him, “I will never forgive you.”

What a lie. You would forgive him for just about anything. He could stab you in the back, literally or figuratively, and you would probably just make a joke about how much it hurt. You were just hoping that he didn’t know. Based on the way his steps faltered, he didn’t.

He turned back to you. “You’ll feel stupid about this when I win,” he said again.

“Coming, Alfredo?” Race’s jubilant whoop of a question stole Albert’s eyes from yours.

“Totally,” he said back. “I’m no chicken.”

 

 

To ensure that Albert wouldn’t see the road, the boys pulled his beanie down over his eyes. It scared you not to see his face, but maybe it was for the best. If he had looked afraid, even just a little, you might have cried. Albert never looked scared; then again, he never did stupid things like this.

The road was relatively clear, so Albert stood in the middle of the street for ages. A part of you hoped that he would just stand there for so long that everybody got bored and gave up. That hoped withered when a pickup truck came into view.

Finch cheered. “Here one comes!”

Albert’s cheeks curved under the hat; he was beaming. You saw him shift his feet, as though stabilizing himself would keep a truck from knocking him down.

“Get off the road, Albert,” you called. You could hardly hear a thing the other boys were saying over the blood roaring in your ears.

The truck was 50 feet away.

“No, Y/N, I’m going to win,” he snapped.

30 feet.

You screamed with frustration. Albert hopped up and down, grin gone. He was serious now, and if he had been sober, he would have been thinking about giving up. But he was not sober, and he was in this to win. 

15 feet.

The truck honked angrily. One of the boys started making beeping sounds back at it, and the others joined.

10 feet.

You started to run. If he wouldn’t chicken out, you would have to.

5 feet.

You hit Albert like a freight train, knocking him out of the way of the roaring truck. You felt it whirl past you as you and Albert hit the street, rolling him to the pavement on the other side. You heard booing across the street, but you only had eyes for Albert.

He was struggling to pull the hat off his face. You sat up, half straddling him. You hit his chest a few times, furious. “You idiot!”

“I’m fine,” he spluttered. He grabbed your wrists to make you stop. “I told you I would be fine!”

“And I told you not to do it!”

“I was fine,” he huffed again, but you could see a little bit of relief in his bright eyes. Relief and happiness. There wasn’t a trace of drunkenness in his face.

“Oh my God, I thought you were going to die,” you snapped. You took a deep breath. He’s fine. He’s fine, and he’s come to his senses. “Please don’t ever scare me like that again. Do you hear me? Never again. If you do that again, you deserve whatever happens.”

He smiled, still holding your wrists. He relaxed his grip a little, letting your arms slip so he was holding your hands. “Fine, Y/N. Fine. Just calm down, okay?”

“You can get off of him now,” Race called.

“Or not,” Romeo said. “Bow-chicka-wow-wow.”

You snorted out a laugh, almost giddy with relief. You had stopped it. Albert was alive, he had promised not to do it again, and he was still holding your hands. “I hate you,” you said.

“Then why are you still on top of me?” he asked, almost smug. 

“I don’t know,” you said. “Because I’m definitely not doing anything with somebody who throws himself in from of cars.”

“What if I promise not to do it again?”

You bit your lip to stop the smile from growing. “That’s a good first step.”

“And if I make all of the necessary steps?”

“I’ll let you buy me dinner,” you said.

“It’s a deal,” he said firmly. His jaw was set; a promise he wouldn’t break, or let you break. 

You crawled off of him and helped pull him up. When he stood, still holding your hand, he pulled you to him and kissed you. It was just once, hard and fast, before he let go of you.

“I’m pretty sure that you haven’t taken all of the necessary steps,” you said. The words had no bite to them; your cheeks were heating and the size of your smile made your cheeks ache. 

“Just sealing the deal,” Albert said innocently. “I’m doing this.”

“Yeah,” you grinned. “I believe in you.”


	18. Dancer!Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So this isn’t on a prompt list or anything, but could you write something about Race being a dancer and asking the reader for help with a dance but the reader can’t focus because they’re mesmerized by Race’s dancing? Just a cute little thing I thought of and I love your writing so I figured I’d ask!”

“C’mon, Y/N, you’ll hardly have to do anything,” Race pleaded. He was standing by your locker, hand on the door. He wasn’t trapping you there, but he made himself impossible to ignore.

“I don’t dance, Race,” you said. “That’s your thing.”

“You won’t have to dance! Seriously, you won’t be dancing at all. I just need you to be there, as a point of reference.”

Race was not just a dancer. To call him that would be doing him an injustice. He was an artist. He was a work of art. You felt so, so lucky to be invited to his performances, but you definitely could not handle helping him practice.

He had a dance partner for this dance, though they hardly had to be doing the choreography together. His partner wasn’t available to practice for the week - something about some audition elsewhere. Race needed to practice, but he wanted to have somebody there to compare his movements to a video of his dance instructor doing the choreography. To tell him if he was doing it right, he said. An objective eye. He wanted you.

“That’s hardly the point! I can’t do it,” you said. It was almost a plea; you were never good at saying no to Race. If he pushed you, you would end up giving in, and he knew it.

You couldn’t do it. Oh, you could watch him dance. You could spend the rest of your life watching him dance, and you would still not be ready to stop. That was kind of the problem. There was nothing objective about how you felt when you saw him dance.

“You can,” he said confidently. “You are just the person I need.”

“Anybody could do this,” you argued.

“Anybody could, but I want you,” he replied.

How could you argue with that?

 

 

Race was one of your best friends, but that was hard to remember when you saw him stretching. His sweatpants covered his legs, thank goodness, but his tank top revealed a million places you would love to run your hands along.

“Ready?” He beamed at you while he pulled one of his legs up, almost parallel to the rest of his body.

“Hardly,” you muttered, struggling to touch your toes. You knew that you didn’t have to stretch; all you were doing was sitting with an iPad in front of you, watching him dance while watching the video. You just liked making him laugh, and he always laughed when you gave a dramatic grunt as you reached.

“Like you said, this is easy. Don’t worry; just watch and tell me how I do,” he said, and turned on the music.

It was so easy, at first. Objective. Be objective. Pay attention to whether he does the choreography the way the instructor does. Take into account the difference in style; how Race moves fluidly instead of crisply. Pay attention to his arms, and how you can practically see which muscles are flexing as he moves.

Wait. No, don’t pay attention to that. 

Make sure he completes the turns. Make sure he is paying attention to his facial expressions. Make sure he breathes at appropriate times, not letting it interfere with the dance. Make sure you imagine what you could do to get him to breathe heavily like that.

What? No, no, no. That’s not what you should be paying attention to.

By the end of the song, you had given up. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t watch him objectively. You had heard people say that artists had to get their hands dirty, and you agreed. Race wanted your help creating this art, but all you could think about was how messy you wanted this to get.

You watched him openly. You ignored the video entirely, opting instead to just enjoy it. Did it look good? Did watching it feel right, or were there moments that made you feel off kilter? You just watched, and you allowed yourself to enjoy Race. You enjoyed the slope of his back, the willowy movements of his arms, the curve of his ribcage. You liked the way his brow sometimes furrowed when he spun. You liked him.

“So?” He was panting, cheeks a little flushed.

“That was incredible,” you said. It really was. If you had been standing, your legs would have gone all wobbly.

“I did it right?”

“Probably,” you said lightly.

“Probably,” he echoed. He took a swig of water from his bottle, blinking at you in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“I had a little trouble paying attention to the video,” you admitted.

“What,” he teased. “Couldn’t take your eyes off of me?”

There was no point lying. You would look like an idiot either way, so it was better to be idiotic and honest. “I really couldn’t,” you said. You met his eyes levelly. “I never can.”

His smile faded a little. “Really?”

“You’re kind of awesome to watch. Not just when you’re dancing - all the time.”

The smile came back in full force. “Well, I can’t really blame you for that. I feel the same way.”

Your heart sped up, but you tried to keep your hopes from blooming into something unmanageable. “You can’t look away from yourself either, huh?”

“Nope,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t just do this in front of a mirror. I couldn’t have controlled myself.” He came and sat next to you, smiling when you laughed. “Seriously, though. I like looking at you.”

You grinned at the iPad. “So we like looking at each other. Nice.”

You thought he would make a joke. Maybe something about how he was more fun to watch than you were, or he could gasp and say that you two had so much in common. Instead he surprised you by taking your hand. Both of you focused on the way your hands fit together; it was a good fit. “We should look at each other more often,” he said.

“Like this?” You gestured to the dance studio.

“Or in a restaurant. A park. Arcades. Movie theatres. Anywhere, really.”

You grinned at his hand. “That would be great.”

“I should probably find somebody else to help me with my dancing,” he teased. “You’re kind of useless at it.”

“I told you that I would be,” you protested.

“And I knew that you would be,” he admitted. “I just wanted to spend time with you, and I thought that getting work done would be a good excuse. A good use of time, too.”

“Awe,” you crooned. “You want to spend time with me. How nice.”

He shrugged, purposefully nudging you a little. “A total bust, though. What a waste. It wasn’t effective.”

“I don’t know,” you said thoughtfully. “That was very effective for me. There was definitely an effect on me.”

Race laughed out loud, and you thought that maybe you should come watch him practice more often.


	19. Swim!Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can i get uhh albert x swimmer reader?”

It was Senior night, and Albert was regretting the bouquet of flowers.

“They’re great,” Crutchie assured him.

“I know the flowers are great,” Albert groaned. “That’s why I bought them. But now I have to hold them the entire time, but I don’t even know if Y/N will want them.”

“Did Y/N say they liked you?”

Albert opened his mouth to answer, but he closed it when he realized he didn’t exactly know. You had been friends for a while, and he had liked you for ages. It wasn’t that he was too scared to ask you out, though that would certainly have been like him. All of his uncertainty came from remembering a night at the park.

His friends spent a lot of time at the park. Going to somebody’s house was a challenge, since there were too many people to fit in a small New York apartment. Restaurants were a little better, but high schoolers didn’t always have the money to hang out in one as often as they would have liked. So the park was the gathering place, and a good day would have all of you there from the end of school until dark.

Back when summer was fading into fall, all of you had been hanging out at the park. It was something of a last hurrah for you, since swim season was about to start. You and Albert stayed long after the others left, trying to enjoy a few more hours of freedom before going home.

Albert wasn’t sure where the courage came from, since he was not the courageous type. He was made to be sturdy, not to be sporadic. However it happened, Albert searched his heart for the strength to kiss you, and he found it there. He kissed you when the sun was gone, but the darkness was only clinging to the edges of the evening. 

You kissed him back, and it may have been the best moment of his life. It answered a million questions that he only allowed himself to ask when you were gone; where you would put your hands, if you would say his name, if you would be smiling or serious or cautious. He found that he liked every answer he got, but when he asked you out afterwards, you said that you wouldn’t have time. Being on the swim team was a full time commitment, and you didn’t think that you could balance sports, schoolwork, and a relationship without ruining one of them.

Albert understood that. He knew how challenging it could be to keep so many commitments without doing one halfheartedly. He found other ways to spend time with you instead. He started studying with you during homeroom. He ate lunch with you when he could. He texted you throughout the day, and he stayed up until you went to bed so he could maximize the amount of time he talked to you.

All of it was awesome, but he had done it all assuming that swim season wasn’t just an excuse.

“No,” he said slowly. “I thought it was implied, but it wasn’t said out loud.”

Crutchie smiled, but the reassurance in it may have just been Crutchie being himself. He came to all of the swim meets with Albert, sometimes making signs to hold up. “I think Y/N likes you just fine. They’ll love the flowers.”

Maybe you would. Maybe implication was good enough. After all, during the months of swimming, you had enthusiastically welcomed his attention. You sent him good morning texts when you got up before him for practice. You helped him study for classes you didn’t take. He sometimes thought that he caught you looking at his lips, but maybe that was just a coincidence.

But maybe you had kissed him because it felt like the right moment, not because it was Albert you wanted to be kissing. 

Maybe you had liked him back then, but he had fallen safely into friendship since then.

Maybe he would give you the flowers and ask you out, but you would turn him down with an awkward smile.

Maybe you wouldn’t want to study together or text anymore.

Maybe you would see him with the flowers, and run before he had the chance to give them to you.

All of the “maybes” built up into one giant regret while he watched you swim. Albert loved to watch you; he loved the strength in your shoulders and the way you wore the swim uniform with unconcerned pride. He loved the enthusiasm you gave off when you did well, and he loved going out for ice cream with you to mourn losses.

By the time you finished the meet, he was so certain you would say no that he thought maybe he should just leave. Leave, and pretend that the end of swim season did not signal what he had hoped would be an awesome beginning to something else.

He stood, flowers behind his back, and moved to leave. Crutchie grabbed his hand. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Albert sighed.

“What about Y/N? The flowers?”

“I’m not doing it,” Albert snapped. “Y/N isn’t interested. Being friends will have to be good enough, since asking them out can only ruin it.”

“But what if Y/N wants to say yes?” Crutchie frowned at him, looking betrayed despite having nothing to do with the relationship hanging on the line.

“Y/N is perfect! Y/N would never -”

“Would never what?” Your question made Albert feel like he was going to wither up and die. At least, he wished that he could. You were behind him, toweling off, staring at the flowers.

“Oh, you know,” he mumbled.

“I really don’t,” you said with a rueful grin. “Are the flowers for me?”

He held them out. “Yeah.” He opened his mouth to ask you out, explicitly using the word date, but something else came out instead. “Celebrating with the team tonight?”

“Nah,” you said. “Tomorrow night. Why?”

“Because it’s about dinner time,” he said awkwardly.

“That it is,” you agreed. “What about it?” You were teasing him, of course, and his ears went pink. 

Just say it, Albert. It’s less humiliating to get rejected if you don’t ask like a dope.

“Albert wants to go to dinner with you,” Crutchie said. Albert stared at him, caught between mortification and relief.

You beamed. “Great! Let me change, and I’m all yours.”

He wished.

 

 

Your hair was still a little damp, and you smelled heavily of chlorine. When he was a kid, the smell made him think of sunscreen and dry skin and blinding sunlight. Now it made him think of quiet libraries, the park at night, and the smell of the lotion you carried around to sooth your dry hands.

“So,” you said over a slice of pizza. “What were you saying I would never do?”

Albert was about as bad at lying as Forrest Gump was good at running. If he lied to you now, he would turn a flaming shade of red and probably ruin his chance with you forever. You had accepted the flowers, and maybe that was a good sign.

“Date me,” he said.

You frowned at him, but it turned into a laugh. “Really? Why not?”

“Because you’re the greatest,” Albert said, bewildered.

“So are you,” you said with equal confusion. “Why were you talking about it in the first place?”

“Swim season ended,” he said sheepishly. “I thought that maybe I could ask you out now that you have more time for a relationship, but I realized that it was stupid once I had the flowers and everything.”

You hummed thoughtfully around your straw. “Huh. It doesn’t seem that stupid to me. We’ve kind of been dating this entire time, in a friend-way.”

“Friend dating?”

“Exactly. All we’re missing is the kissing and hand holding, really,” you said. You were grinning at him.

Albert swallowed thickly. He knew you were right, but that brought a new question to the table. “Do you want to kiss and hold hands?”

“Definitely,” you said. “When we aren’t eating. Rain check for an hour?”

Albert grinned, hooking his ankle around yours under the table. He had waited for you for months. An hour was nothing. You were worth the wait.


	20. Catch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mush - 8. Oh, my God, I thought you were going to die. Please don’t ever scare me like that again.

You fell in love with Mush when you were twelve years old, but you didn’t recognize it until you were sixteen.

In some ways, the memory of it was so faded that it hardly mattered. Isn’t it funny that important memories fade just as quickly as the stuff you don’t care about? What you remembered was the look on Mush’s face, and the way your stomach felt like it dropped out when you lunged for him.

Somebody had dared you - Finch? Romeo? You couldn’t remember to save your life - to jump from one roof to another. Not across a street; they were reasonable enough to choose one of the slim alleyways that only the poor and desperate would use. You had agreed. You had been the youngest Newsie back then, so you spent your days trying to keep up with the older kids who didn’t have the time or the patience to slow down for you.

Except Mush, but at the time, that was more humiliating than it was comforting.

The group of thirteen and fourteen year olds led you up a fire escape, rickety and rusty, to the rooftop. It was almost dark, but you could see the roof on the opposite building easily enough.

You had a few boys waiting behind you, possibly to keep you from chickening out. “What are they doing on the other side?”

Mush, Jack, and Sniper stood across the way. “We’s here to catch you,” Mush said bitterly. He didn’t want you to do it, and he had made it abundantly clear.

“And the kids on the ground?”

“They’s gonna scrape what’s left of you off the ground if you fall,” Albert said. He was grinning, but when you looked down over the side, you thought he was right. You would be little more than ground beef if you missed the other side.

“Alright, Y/N,” Race said eagerly. He was only thirteen then, hyperactive and king of the Manhattan Lodging house. “Whenever you’s ready.”

You swallowed thickly. “Right. Let’s do this.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Mush called.

“Would you?” This was the real question. You wouldn’t care if you were too scared to do something that nobody else would do. If you refused to do something that any of the others would have done, you would never live it down.

He frowned, looking at the gap. You knew the answer before he said it. “Sure, but -”

“Let’s do this,” you repeated. The gap was only about ten feet. You could probably jump that, right? You had never tried. You thought that you could, but looking down, failure was daunting.

You backed up, preparing to take a running start. Race was grinning, but you could see that Specs and Crutchie looked more anxious than they had a moment earlier. They had thought you would chicken out, you realized with outrage.

“Y/N, don’t!” Mush was frantic now. You had known the fourteen year old for years, but you had never seen him like this.

“Get ready to catch me,” you called back. You didn’t bother starting slow; you sprinted for the edge of the roof. With a final push, you threw yourself over the edge.

At first, you looked at Mush. His eyes were almost comically wide, mouth frozen in a terrified grimace. You closed your eyes when your stomach kicked. Surely you’d been in the air for hours, right? Long enough to have a heart attack, or to vomit up the meager breakfast that you hadn’t been hungry for.

Eyes closed, you reached your hands out. It was like a game in the harbor. The boys would throw you over the edge of the pier, and while you flew into the water, you would twist and reach for the people who propelled you over. Even though you knew you were flying away, that you had begged them to throw you again, you still thought your heart would stop when your fingers didn’t meet theirs.

You felt your body stop rising, then start to go down. It was like your stomach had a split second of calm, then rose up again when the rest of you started to fall. In that moment, you were not afraid. There was nothing left of you; just blind hope as you reached out.

Just when you thought that it was over, that you really would be a stew to be scraped off the ground - maybe you would be the headline; the boys could use a bloody picture - two hands clamped around your wrists and pulled. You rocketed up and over, gripping Mush’s wrists like vices.

He had to turn his body to get the momentum to pull you up. He was strong, but he was still a kid. The two of you collapsed, still holding each other by the arm. You had scraped your elbows when you hit the ground, but you didn’t feel it. There was only Mush, panting almost as hard as you were.

You started laughing. It wasn’t funny, not really, but something about it tickled you. You had just jumped off a building. Furthermore, you wouldn’t have made it on your own. Mush saved your life.

“Oh my God,” he snarled. His sweet face was twisted with fear and anger, but you could see the relief gripping him. “Why are you laughing? I thought you were going to die.” That brought on another wave of hysterical giggles, and now you could see the unexplainable mirth coloring his features. He started to giggle. “Please don’t ever scare me like that again, Y/N. Never.”

“No promises,” you said once you started to calm down. “I did it, didn’t I?”

Jack snorted from behind you, relief heavy on his grubby face. “Hardly. You were going to fall.”

“Okay,” you said with a broad grin. You smiled at Mush. “I’ll only do stupid things if Mush is there to catch me.”

The shock wore off later in the night, sparking nausea and fear deep in your chest. The only solution you could think of was to walk to Harlem. Mush stayed in the Lodging house there, and though he never talked about it, you all knew that he made the commute back and forth because he had been kicked out of the house by his stepfather, but didn’t want to be far from his mother.

You scurried up the wall and through the window in Harlem, tiptoeing past bunks with unfamiliar kids. When you found Mush’s bed, he was fast asleep.

“Mush,” you whispered. “Mush, wake up.”

His eyes flew open, already focused when they locked on yours. “Y/N?”

“I can’t sleep,” you said guiltily.

He scooched over to make room for you in the bed. The twin bed was a tight fit, but with his arms wrapped around you, you didn’t mind.

He was very warm, and his steady heartbeat lured you into sleepiness. You were almost gone when Mush spoke again. “I thought you were going to die,” he said again. This time, there was no humor in it. He sounded afraid.

“You caught me,” you murmured sleepily. 

“But if I hadn’t -”

“You wouldn’t have let me fall,” you said. You fell asleep then, totally sure of what you had said. Mush would never let you fall.

 

 

When you were sixteen, you still spent many nights in Mush’s bed. You didn’t do anything improper, though the Manhattan kids teased you about it constantly. 

“Look at our Mushy,” Race said with joking pride. “Getting it nightly. He could probably do better, but still.”

Mush’s cheeks were pink, but he threw an arm over your shoulders. “Better than anything you’ve had, Higgins.”

You laughed. You probably should have stopped going to Harlem for him, and you knew it. The small bed was way too small for the two of you now, and it probably got in the way of any other boys paying any attention to you. It may have kept girls away from Mush too, but that didn’t bother you. If anything, that was an unexplainable perk.

Well, maybe not so unexplainable. Very explainable, and very necessary to avoid.

You didn’t shake his arm off. “We all know that you’s jealous, Race. Don’t lie.”

He grinned. “I could steal you away if I wanted.”

“No,” you crooned. When you kissed Mush on the cheek, you planned for it to be quick and jocular. You did not expect him to flush deeper or for his arm to tighten a little around your shoulders. You rushed to cover it. “No, Mush is a catch. I’d throw you back.”

People were so busy ribbing Race that they ignored how flustered Mush was. You were relieved. You didn’t want him to be embarrassed because of you.

You walked to Harlem with him when the day ended, not bothering to sneak in under the cover of night. Everybody knew you would be there anyhow, so why make the extra effort?

“Why do you still come?” His question came out of nowhere. Neither of you had ever talked about it before. You both just assumed that if you wanted the other, the other wanted you.

You thought about it. “I just want to, I guess.”

“But why?”

“I needed you, that first time,” you said. 

“And now?” He turned his head a little so he could keep an eye on you while you walked. 

“Now I want you,” you said with a shrug. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I like having you there.”

There was silence for a while, but you kept thinking about it. You slept without him just fine. Sure, you found yourself reaching for warmth that wasn’t there, but once sleep found you, you were gone. If you didn’t need him to sleep, why did you still go?

Because he was warm. Because you liked listening to his heartbeat. Because sometimes he would rub away the knots in your neck and shoulders. Because you liked that he smelled like the flowers he would snag off of bouquets in shops so his clothes wouldn’t smell like sweat and dirt. 

“Why do you still let me come?”

“Because I want you,” he said. You wished you could tell if he was blushing again. His heart was still steady at night, but maybe the way he wanted you was more than just friends holding friends.

“Well,” you said lightly, “it makes sense. If you’re going to catch me, I have to be within reach.”

“Yeah,” he said. Without looking down, he grabbed your hand. “This makes it even easier.”

You tugged him closer to your side. “It’s only smart. You don’t need me falling because I got too far away.”

He was beaming. “Right. It’s the best arrangement.”

If he held your hand in front of the boys the next day, it was just to make his job easier, of course.


	21. Broke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race - “I know you mainly do fics off of prompts but have you ever thought about writing a fic based off of Two Broke Kids- by Ruth B. ??”

You were sitting on the floor in your empty living room, book propped on your lap and hand resting against a half full mug, when a knock came at the window. You were frowning when you walked over, but it melted into a smile when you saw who it was.

“Race! Get in here before somebody sees you and thinks you’re breaking in.”

It wouldn’t be a surprise if people thought that. You were in a sketchier part of the city, and while none of your neighbors had complained about thieves since you moved in, how much of a stretch could it be? Not that you had anything to steal.

He had to shimmy awkwardly through the window, careful to hide something behind his back. You didn’t bother trying to look; he sometimes brought you newspaper clippings that made him laugh or a donut to share. His legs were too long, his head too high, for him to duck smoothly. 

You grabbed his face and pulled him in for a kiss. He tasted like cheap coffee, and you smiled. “Long day?”

“The longest,” he sighed. He was a delivery boy for a sandwich shop, and though he was charismatic and loved people, he was always hollowed out and weary by the end of a shift. He had a smudge of dirt on his cheekbone, and you wiped it away.

“Sorry.”

He shrugged your apology off, giving you a crooked smile. “What’re you up to, doll?”

You gestured to the setup by the electrical outlet. “Just chillin’. Why? Do you have plans?”

He handed the roses to you. “I was thinking a date night.”

You gaped at the flowers. These were nice flowers. Race was usually the 3 dollar carnations kind of guy. “How did you afford those?”

“That’s a great question,” he said with a sheepish smile.

“Could you afford those?”

“I didn’t have to afford them.”

You tried to scowl at him; you didn’t want stolen flowers. You didn’t need flowers at all, so long as Race kept coming around. “Race, come on, you didn’t have to -”

“I wanted to,” he said. He kissed your forehead, quick and brief. “I can’t give you much.”

“I’ve never needed much,” you said. He tried to protest, so you cut him off. “What are you thinking for the date, then?”

“McDonalds and a bus,” he said.

“Right you are,” you beamed.

 

 

You and Race, broke as you were, could not afford much for dates. You ended up going on a lot of walks, eating a lot of fast food, and sneaking onto the bus to ride around the city for hours.

“She’s a spy,” you said, nodding toward an elderly woman on the opposite side. You had your head resting on Race’s shoulder.

“Really? She looks so old.”

“That’s why it works. She fools people into complacency by pretending to be deaf, and she reports their secrets to the CIA. Or maybe the Russians.”

“Both,” he said. “Whoever pays more.”

“I think you’re right,” you agreed. “Your turn.”

He pointed to a teenage boy with snakebites. “He’s a street artist. He’s going to spray-paint the Empire State Building with penises.”

“That seems too easy for a street artist.”

Race was dragging his finger in lazy, patternless designs in the holes in your jeans. “Anatomically correct penises.”

You laughed. “I like that. I would pay to see that exhibit.”

Race’s head flopped down onto yours. You knew that meant it was about time to go home; he would be asleep soon.

“Alright, American Ninja Warrior,” you said gently. “I think that this is a night to use the front door, not the window.”

“The window is more fun,” he yawned.

“It is literally our apartment,” you said with a smile. “You have a key. You live there. We split the rent. You can use the door.”

“I know,” he mumbled into your hair. “It just makes it feel more exciting to sneak in. Like we’re doing something exciting.”

“You’re exciting enough,” you promised.

You could tell he was on the verge of sleep. Whenever he got tired, he softened. Sometimes it meant that he would get cuddly, other times it meant that he was more emotional. Race would apologize for things he was too proud to acknowledge during the day, or grow nostalgic for things he had never had.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“That our apartment sucks,” he said. He was still tracing the hole in your pants, but you grabbed his hand.

“I don’t care about that.”

“We don’t even have furniture,” he protested. “I have to steal flowers.”

He was right; the two of you were truly scraping by. You had a mattress on the floor, but you had opted to buy things like dishes and clothes instead of nice furniture. “We can look at Goodwill again this weekend,” you offered. “They have chairs for twenty dollars sometimes.”

“That’s not the point,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more.”

“Who needs more? If I had to choose between having you and having more, I would pick you every time,” you said. It was true. Times would be tough, but the two of you were in college. College years were always hard. You would get your degrees, and you cold figure things out from there.

“I would pick you too,” he promised. You could hear the smile in his voice. “Every time.”

“That’s good,” you said dryly. You’re heart was racing a little, but he didn’t need to know that his words made you melt. “You’re stuck with me. We went in on that mattress together, and I’m not willing to share custody.”

He laughed, already fading into sleep. You would wake him in a couple more stops. You liked it when Race fell asleep against you like this, and you knew that he needed this. He needed to sleep, and once he woke up, he would be ready to dream with you again. You would dream together about bay windows and bookshelves; full savings accounts and buying flowers without giving something else up; colorful couches and strong coffee. You didn’t have any money, but you had plenty of love and plenty of dreams. Money paled in comparison.


	22. Motorcycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finch - “Hiya. I’ve been reading your newsie/reader fics on ao3 and I have an idea for a prompt. One of the Newsies (maybe Albert or Finch? Idek) has a motorcycle that they use to get around and they use it to pick the reader up from somewhere. Obviously it’d have to be a more modern hc, but I think it could be cute. ^^ I love your work, keep it up ^3^”

Finch: i got new wheels. 

You: no way! What kind?

Finch: i’ll pick you up for class tomorrow

 

  
As juvenile as it may have been, you and Finch had bonded in the first place over a mutual hatred for riding the subway to school. Most of the kids at school did, but that didn’t change how terrible the other riders were. When you started taking the same subway at the start of freshman year, if somebody did something stupid, the two of you would instinctively look to one another in exasperation. By sophomore year, it had extended to sitting together so you could complain about those stupid people. By junior year, you sat together at school to do the same thing. 

Hatred is a funny thing. Sometimes it makes a person impossible to care for, since they inject poison into everything they touch. You and Finch, on the other hand, used hatred to bond yourselves together. Hatred of others only highlighted all of the unhateable things about the other, and that was fine by you. Finch was very hard to hate, and if he felt the same about you, you certainly weren’t going to complain.

Senior year flew by in a blur of hating other people a little less, liking each other a little more, and pretending that neither thing was true. 

And then came college - the dream years. The years without important cliques, consistent bullying, and forced stereotypes. The years that made you realize that liking Finch had nothing to do with anybody else, and that maybe the word “like” did not encompass the way he made you feel.

Finch had wanted his own set of wheels.

In New York, having a car wasn’t as simple as it sounded. For most people, it made more sense to take advantage of the numerous forms of public transportation instead of struggling through parking and traffic on your own. Even so, Finch wanted a vehicle of his own.

“So I can flee the state with no notice,” he told you solemnly.

“So he can hook up with girls in the backseat,” Race told you with a wink. Finch had slugged him in the arm, but the way he refused to meet your eyes made you think that picking up girls was part of the appeal.

You thought he was insanely attractive without a car, but you couldn’t exactly tell him that.

You waited outside your apartment complex for Finch to pick you up, assuming that he would show up in a junker or a bug or something. When somebody roared in on a motorcycle, it did not even occur to you that it could be your somebody until he pulled off the helmet.

“Oh my God,” you said.

He beamed at you. “I know.”

“You bought a motorcycle.”

His smile was blinding; his eyes were stars. “I bought a motorcycle,” he agreed.

“Oh my God,” you said again. Well, there would be no hooking up in the backseat.

“I got you a helmet,” he said eagerly, holding up a red helmet.

“I thought you were getting a car,” you blurted.

He shrugged. “Why would I get a car when I can have a bike?”

You didn’t have a reply. You had never ridden one before, but he looked like he belonged on it. His legs hugged the sides casually, and his crooked smile and leather jacket made him look very “rebel without a cause.”

“Are you coming or what?”

You nodded, swallowing thickly. You hadn’t known his smile could get any wider, but you could practically see his molars when you pulled on the helmet.

“Hop on,” he shouted, the bike roaring to life. You did, hugging him around the waist tightly. 

That was the part that made you love it, really. It wasn’t the wind whipping at your arms and legs, which were woefully underdressed for a motorcycle ride. It wasn’t the way the wind roared, or the buildings flying by. It was holding yourself against his slim body, with no space between and no reason to worry about it weirding him out. That alone was reason enough to ride it all the time.

When he pulled into a parking space, you staggered off the bike. Your thighs ached something fierce, and you were wobbly for the first several steps. When you pulled off the helmet, you didn’t even care about how your hair must look. You grinned at him. “Wow.”

“I know! Y/N, this is the greatest thing I’ve ever done,” Finch said enthusiastically. He pulled off his own helmet, and you frowned.

“Your hair isn’t messed up. Unfair,” you griped playfully.

“One of the perks to having short hair.”

“Maybe I’ll shave my head,” you mused, but he scowled at you.

“You had better not. I’d miss getting your hair in my mouth when we hug,” he added cheekily.

You decided to ignore that. “Well,” you sighed, “I can see why a girl would be more impressed by that than by a car.”

He looked away from you again, scuffing the ground with his sneaker. “That’s good. I did get you a helmet, after all.”

“What?”

“The helmet’s yours,” he said shyly. “If you want it. If you’re impressed enough, I mean.”

He was trying to impress you. He wanted the bike, of course, but the sex appeal of it was for your benefit, you realized with a slow smile. “Really?”

“I mean, yeah?”

When you walked over to put your helmet with the bike, you leaned in close to Finch and brushed your lips against the corner of his mouth. “That’s great. Really, I’m impressed.”

He smiled again, leaning in to kiss you firmly on the lips. “Awesome. This,” he said with another kiss on the lips, “is the second greatest thing I’ve ever done.”

You smirked. “I mean, I’d be more impressed if there was a backseat to make out in, but hey -”

He smacked helmet against your arm gently, drawing a laugh out of you. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to make out on the motorcycle, and it’ll be great.”

You were sure it would be.


	23. Bracelets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JoJo - “hey you should write some jojo x reader fluff where it’s just super lovey dovey “2 kids in love” kinda vibe please please please”

“That’s too fast,” you huffed. “I can’t tell what you’re doing.”

“Sorry,” he said with a decidedly guiltless smile. Despite his lack of regret, the swift journey of his fingers slowed to something more reasonable.

He had always had a knack for anything with his hands. As kids, he could braid hair faster and neater than anybody else you knew. The other boys teased him for it, but you thought that maybe it was because they weren’t any good at it. It was easier to tease him than acknowledge that they failed.

He could tie knots that never came undone. He could pick up any magic trick. He was the first to figure out how to tie a tie. He could make flower crowns that stayed in place for hours.

When he kissed you for the first time, his fingers had skated along your jaw and cheekbones so gently that you thought your heart would break.

He had promised to teach you how to make friendship bracelets, but yours was not looking anything like his. His was uniform and lovely - something that you would probably have been willing to buy in a store. You blamed his quick fingers making it hard to watch, but really it was all you. You didn’t have the same easy movements.

“Maybe I’ll knot a heart bead on it and give it to Spot,” JoJo mused.

You laughed. “He would hate it.”

“I’d tie it to his backpack,” he said. “He’d be stuck with it, in plain sight.”

“Why start so small? Take up knitting and make him a sweater. If you learn to make patterns, you could put a heart on it. Or a unicorn.”

“Weasley sweater,” JoJo said with delight. You had been joking, but you wouldn’t put it past him to try it out. If he did, you would bet anything that he excelled at it.

“If you made us sweaters, we would all wear them.” You’d have to, really, but everybody would do it with pride. The idea of all of your friends wearing JoJo’s sweaters made you smile. Race wearing a sweater with a vape pen spewing colorful smoke. Finch with his beloved motorcycle. “What would you put on mine?”

He looked at you thoughtfully. “My face.”

You snorted. “I love it. Might as well put ‘Property of JoJo’ on it.”

“That can go on the back,” he said, leaning over to kiss your temple. 

There had never really been a time before the two of you. Before either of you had been old enough to date, you had been best friends. He was the first boy you had ever had a real crush on, and he had never bothered taking his eyes off of you to look for somebody else. He would never call you his property, partially because one person can’t own another, but partially because he didn’t have to worry about you straying. Why would you want somebody else?

You were still focusing on knotting the thread, but you turned your head a little to return his kiss on whatever you could reach. You ended up brushing your lips against the sharp edge of his jaw, under his ear.

During the time it took you to finish, JoJo had made two more bracelets. He could fly through them, quickly knotting or braiding masterpieces without focusing on them. Your bracelet was lumpy and awkward, with the colors randomly distributed in patternless knots. You frowned at it. “Wow.”

“It’s great,” he said, though you could hear the amusement coloring his words.

“It looks like it was made by something without opposable thumbs.”

“Well,” he said, “at least you’re cute.”

The grin on his face warmed you to your toes. “It this supposed to be the opposite of saying you have a great personality? Like, I have no future as a useful person, but at least I look good?”

“Hey, if I could be a trophy spouse, I totally would. That’s the dream.”

“Marrying rich has always been my goal,” you agreed. “Remind me again why I’m dating you?”

He kissed you, quick and sweet, while he traced the line of knots in your bracelet. “I wooed you with daisy chains.”

You nodded solemnly as you tied it around his wrist. “That’s right. The ability to make daisy chains does me in. I knew what a sexy beast you would be someday, even as a six year old.”

When you held out your wrist, he tied all three of his bracelets on. His fingers lingered against the pulse point in your wrist. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the bracelet,” he said. He smiled at it as though it was perfect; like it was everything he had ever hoped for.

“I would tell you that I’ll love you for as long as it stays on,” you said dryly, “but I don’t think the bracelet will last long enough for that. I’ll have to make you a new one every week.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Every knot on those bracelets is one reason I love you,” he said smugly.

“I can’t top that,” you sighed. “Now you have to name every reason.”

He held your hand, peering at the knots as though the reasons were listed on each one. “This one is because you laugh at my jokes.” He kissed your wrist. “This one is because you never make me feel like I don’t deserve you. I don’t, but you don’t make me feel like it.”

“That is so -” you started to scoff at his words, but he cut you off by kissing the crook of your elbow.

“This one is because you have the best smile in the world.” He kissed your shoulder, and though you thought that his smile was much better, you didn’t fight him. “Because you tell good stories.” The side of your neck.

Each reason was accompanied by a kiss, each one closer and closer to your lips. You thought that he probably could come up with enough reasons if you asked, but by the time he got to your mouth, you didn’t need more. You knew he loved you. You would make him crappy bracelets weekly if it meant that he knew the same of you.


	24. The Right Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davey - “Heyyyy if you have time for requests rn is there any way you could do any newsie x reader who is super insecure? Thank you so much and love ur blog :)”

You collapsed face first onto Davey’s bed. 

“College essays again?” His words were muffled by the pillows you were trying to melt into, but the words made you groan.

“Yes. I should just give up. Become a rice farmer.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. “You’ll do great. I’ll help you edit them, if you want.”

You didn’t think it was enough. All of the essays wanted to hear about times that you had been brave, or kind, or compassionate, or something of the kind. You didn’t feel like you were any of those things, or really anything at all. You didn’t feel particularly good at anything, which would have been preferable, but you didn’t feel bad at anything either. At least sucking would be something. Instead you were nothing; a total nobody who would never be remembered for anything.

“I have nothing good to say in an essay,” you said. You turned onto your side to look at Davey, who sat in his desk chair. He slid onto the floor to lean against the bed frame.

“Sure you do,” he said. “You have plenty to say, all the time.”

“Nothing that anybody wants to hear.”

Davey frowned at you. The two of you had become friends by necessity; it was easier to tolerate a group project if you knew that the other person would try. If you worked together, neither of you felt used by somebody else. It didn’t take long to realize that working together was more fun when there was ice cream or pizza, or when you took breaks to go on walks or watch movies. Being friends made working together better, so it was logical to grow closer.

Davey liked logic, and if logic had drawn him to you, who were you to fight it?

“I like hearing what you have to say,” he said.

“You have to say that,” you said with a crooked smile. “You’re my best friend.”

“Right,” he said matter-of-factly. “I would never have chosen you as a best friend if I didn’t want to spend time with you. You must be worth being friends with, if I chose you.”

You hummed, not really agreeing. You had been thrown together. Plenty of high schoolers formed relationships, anticipating severing them once college came.

You did not want to sever your relationship with Davey. You wanted to go to college with him, where you could study late into the night. You could join clubs filled with like-minded people. Maybe, in a new place where roles could change, your relationship would change a little too. Maybe you would start borrowing his sweaters when you got cold. You would go to the movies or a restaurant, and when somebody said that the two of you made a great couple, Davey wouldn’t flush and avoid your eyes for hours afterwards.

Any of those things happening hinged on these essays. These essays that you had nothing to say for, because nothing about you warranted getting accepted into a college as good as Davey deserved. And if you couldn’t even get into a good college, how could you expect to be good enough for Davey?

Davey saw the look on your face. He liked to think that he knew all of your faces, from the slow blink that you gave when somebody was appallingly stupid to the sugary smile you gave to teachers who had to be won over. When he looked at your face now, it was as clear as day that you didn’t believe him.

“Y/N,” he said gently. “I’m serious. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Can you imagine how terrible my life would be if I was still partners with Race in history?” His attempt at a joke did make you smile, but he continued. “There are a million reasons for a college to accept you, and it won’t be hard to put them in an essay. You’ve already got the right stuff, and I’ll help you make it into a killer essay.”

“Davey, being a good friend is not the same as being college-bound.” You ran your hand over his comforter. He watched it move.

“It totally is,” he argued. “You just have to say it right.”

“There isn’t anything to say,” you said. You were almost getting tired of this conversation. You were clearly at a stalemate, and though Davey could come up with convincing debates, you thought that you knew yourself better than anybody else could.

“You’re great at plenty of stuff!” Davey seldom raised his voice, but he was nearly shouting now. You wanted to reach over to smooth the furrow in his brow, but that wouldn’t help at all. It would just muddy the waters. The waters were murky enough already, with the two of you hanging out more and more and you laying on his bed. “You’re interesting, you’re funny, you’re a good kisser -”

“How would you know that I’m a good kisser?” Davey had never kissed you, and you had never talked to him about kissing, so he had no reason to know so.

He turned bright pink, and looked away. “Well, I mean - What I’m trying to say is -”

He frowned at you again, lips set in a thin line. He opened his mouth to continue, sighed, and leaned in to press his lips against yours. His lips were much softer than they looked, and you could feel him take in a deep breath. Whether he was trying to smell you or breathe you in, you couldn’t be sure. He had a hand on your waist to keep his balance, and you felt like you were on fire everywhere he touched. You would gladly burn alive if it felt like this.

“There,” he said when he pulled away. “You are a phenomenal kisser, and I know that from experience.” His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were bright.

“Thanks,” you croaked, feeling like that was a totally inadequate response. “That was really - I really -”

“Yeah,” he said with a crooked smile. “Yeah, it was. If you write one of your essays, we can do it again.” He leapt to his feet to grab his laptop, unable to keep his smile from growing. He looked like a giddy teenage boy - not the earnest near-man that he always tried to be.

Davey thought you were great. Davey, who would surely change the world some day. Davey, who didn’t just take the moral high ground; he was the moral high ground. Davey liked you. That couldn’t count for everything, but it had to count for something.


	25. Basketball!Albert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert - "Hi sweetie! Can I request an Albert x reader where Albie teaches his grades to play basketball, please??? I just adore baseball player Albert!”

“I’m never going to get this,” Albert said. He had said the same thing on the first day you met him in the library, each of you with arms full of notebooks, textbooks, and handfuls of highlighters and pencils. The difference was that on that first day, he looked at you like a lifeline. Now he was not looking at you at all, instead looking miserably at the equations on his paper.

“You will get it, if you put in the work,” you said. You had said the same thing on the first day you met him in the library, each of you with no interest in seeing the other aside from the little good it could do for college applications. Unless you helped him raise his grade in his math class, he would have to sit out of the basketball games. No scouts want to check out an inexperienced player. Unless his grade improved, you wouldn’t have good results to put on your college apps. The difference was that on the first day, you would have been willing to see him fail just because you didn’t want to tutor him. Now you were tired, but you would save him if it killed you.

Ah, martyrdom. It was less noble when it was figurative.

“I have been!” He flipped through pages upon pages of notes, practice problems, and roughly sketched graphs.

You shrugged. “We just need a different way to study. We’ll get there.”

You weren’t so sure, but you couldn’t just say that. You would try, and he would try, and that would have to be good enough. Y/N and Albert - not the most formidable team, but the only team there was.

“The test is next week, Y/N,” he said miserably. The skin under his eyes was marred by purple shadows. “I have no idea what any of this means.”

“That means we have a whole week, and I know what all of it means,” you said. “I’ll help you. We can meet up every day, before practice.”

He sighed. Those would be long days. School, studying, practice, sleep. Rinse and repeat. “Okay. That sounds good. I mean, it sounds awful -”

“But it sounds good,” you finished. You smiled at him, a little hesitant, but sincere nonetheless.

 

 

Albert had been sent to you after failing yet another math test. The school required athletes to keep their grades up if they wanted to play, and since he was failing to do so, he had been pointed your way for help.

There was nothing malicious between the two of you, exactly, but it was the way things always were in high school. He was a part of a group of very loud people, and though they seemed like fun people, that did not make them less annoying to you. You had flown beneath the radar, so there was nothing about you that made Albert think that you could help him aside from a teacher recommendation.

The biweekly tutoring sessions hadn’t done much to help with that. Albert was convinced that he could not do the math, so he never could. You did not like him well enough to go out of your way to help him, so you listened to his complaints without pity.

The only reason you offered to do them daily before the test was because of something so small, so insignificant, but somehow endearing to you.

You had your notebook open in front of you, scribbling factoring practice problems for when he finished the homework his teacher had given the class. He took longer than you, so you had been scribbling little flowers around where you had instinctively written your name in the right-hand corner.

When you traded papers, you checked his answers while he generated new ones. You only looked up when he gave a heavy sigh. He had his chin propped in one hand, lower lip pooched out a little.

“What is it?”

“How can something simultaneously be so difficult and so boring?” His question made you smile.

“And now you understand how I feel about basketball,” you joked. Well, sort of joked. Joked, while being totally honest.

He snorted. “Basketball is fun. It’s exciting. Math is - it’s impossible.”

“Clearly,” you deadpanned, marking one of his problems that he needed to revisit. “I only understand it because I am equally impossible.”

“That’s definitely how it seems,” he muttered.  
  
That silenced you. What did he mean? Was that a compliment? An insult? Was it supposed to make sense at all? You finally decided to ignore it. The only way to figure it out would be to ask, and you weren’t sure you wanted to understand whatever he meant. You glanced over to check his progress instead, only to see that he had given up. He was doodling in the margins, so you leaned over to show him how to make multiplication trees for his factorials. It didn’t fix all of his work, but he got more right than he had before.

When you checked his work, you saw that he had added to the field of flowers around your name. That was the boy you were helping, you told yourself. Not a basketball player, or the boy who laughed a little too loudly during class. You were helping the boy with the flowers, who called you impossible.

 

 

Albert was standing at the freethrow line, getting nothing but net every time. You stood to the side, making him tell you about different functions. Suddenly, he tossed the ball to you.  
  
You fumbled for it, only snatching it out of the air at the last second before it hit the ground.

He smiled, and you thought that it was the first time he had smiled at you. “Slick.”

“If I have to choose between being able to catch basketballs and knowing equations, I’ll take the equations,” you said. His smile grew, and you thought that maybe you liked making him smile. You filed that thought away for later, when you were alone and could think it through without that smile making you lose track of why you were with him. You tossed the ball back to him. “What does it mean for a quadratic function to be concave up?”

“As x approaches positive or negative infinity, y approaches infinity,” he said immediately. He grinned when you nodded. He tossed the ball to you. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?” Toss.

“What do you do for fun?” Toss.

That gave you a pause. The two of you didn’t chat. “Not this, that’s for sure. Why? Also, what has to be true about x for it to have an inverse function?”

“I know nothing about you,” Albert said. “Like, actually nothing. It’s weird, since we see each other so much. You’d think that I would have picked it up through osmosis or something.”

“That’s not what osmos -”

“You know what I mean,” he said. He caught the ball you tossed to him, spinning it on the tip of his finger without thinking. “How could I be in school with you for so long, but not know anything? X has to be a one to one function.”

“You just weren’t paying attention,” you said. You did get what he meant. You remembered him from years past, and you knew things about him that you didn’t remember learning. You knew that he liked writing in pen more than pencil. You knew that he let Race, who you thought was his best friend, connect the dots of his freckles in Sharpie when Race got bored in class. It would have been odd to see somebody as a blank slate when they should have been covered in writing.

“Well,” he sighed. “I am now.”

His words hit you harder than the basketball did. You felt your face grow warm, and you had to fight the impulse to laugh it off. It didn’t feel funny. At a loss for what to say, you opened your mouth in the hopes that something perfect would come out. “What’s the vertex?”

Nope. Definitely not perfect.

Albert huffed out a laugh, and you thought he looked a little disappointed. You were too, without a doubt.

 

 

You: Test day! Good luck!

Albert: I dont need your luck

You: Thats the spirit

Albert: I need a miracle

You: Thats what Im here for

 

 

Albert showed up at your locker, grinning like a fool. He didn’t speak; he just held out a packet. A large, red “78” was written at the top. It was not a miraculous score, but compared to the scores he had gotten before meeting you, the change was miraculous.

You beamed back. “Was it good enough?”

“Barely,” he declared with delight. “I’ll get to play at the game this weekend. I’m still in!”

“That’s amazing!” You weren’t sure what to do - hug him? High five? Solemn bro nod? You were saved from embarrassment when he wrapped his arms around you. Really nice arms.

“Thank you,” he mumbled into your ear. “You were a miracle.”

“Well,” you said with a smile, “this miracle will still be available to tutor you. See you in the library?”

“Yeah,” he said. He started to back away, but froze, scrunched his eyes closed as though he was giving himself a pep talk, and took a step closer. “Actually, I was thinking.”

“You’ve changed so much since meeting me,” you teased.

“You should come to the basketball game,” he said.

“I don’t like basketball,” you said numbly. What did he mean? Your heart started to beat faster, though you didn’t know why.

“You should come see me in the basketball game,” he said, hands clenched around the rapidly wrinkling test.

Oh. Oh! “Okay.”

He blinked, a little surprised, before allowing a cautious smile. “Really?”

“Sure. Osmosis isn't really cutting it anymore. I want to know you in a more direct way.”

His smile warmed you right to your toes. You had to fight the urge to grab your locker door to steady yourself. “Awesome,” he said. “Pay attention. I'll be quizzing you later.”

You weren't sure whether he meant about the game or about himself, but you thought that as long as you were paying attention to Albert, it wouldn't matter.


	26. Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “hey, uh... *slides you 14 cents* wanna write more finch fluff? thanks”

You fought the urge to try to primp a little before knocking on the door. There was no point; the pizza delivery uniform couldn't be improved. Shapeless polos and company baseball caps don't offer much room for improvement. Even so, you always wished you could look better when you came to this apartment. You knocked, waited for a few seconds, and were rewarded by the sounds of shouting and pounding feet.

Finch opened the door, relief spreading across his thin face. “Y/N, thank God. Just the person I wanted to see. We have a question.”

And so it always went. You met Finch and his roommate, Buttons, on the first night they moved into their apartment. Like so many other people on moving day, they ordered a pizza. It had been uneventful, and you probably wouldn't have remembered them at all if it wasn't for the fact that it was always nice to deliver to attractive people.

Finch and Buttons were very attractive people.

They were always friendly, always tipped well, and they remembered your name. Basic, well liked regulars. Until they weren't. 

The day your relationship changed was one of the days they had a bunch of friends over. Finch had answered the door, was handing you your tip, and froze when somebody shouted from out of view. “We all know that Harry should have been a Slytherin! The Sorting Hat said so!”

You heard mumbled obscenities, denials, and a few cheers of encouragement. Finch grimaced at you. “Don't trust Davey. He's not as smart as he looks.” 

“I'm sure,” you agreed with a grin. In truth, you didn't know which one Davey was. In truth, it hardly mattered. A cute boy who tipped well was always to be agreed with. Really, though, you were sure Davey was wrong. “The Sorting Hat fights to put somebody in a house if it thinks they belong there. Neville wanted to be put in Hufflepuff, but the Hat refused.”

You realized then that the apartment had fallen silent. They had been listening. Finch winked at you, leaned around to the other side of the door, and broke the silence. “So screw you and your uninformed logic, Davey!”

That got the ball rolling again, prompting more arguments about how much trust should be put in a hat, anyhow.

“You're a genius, Y/N,” Finch said. “See you soon.” You sported a goofy grin for the rest of the day, unable to forget that wink. 

That day changed the dynamic you had with the large group that always seemed to be at Finch’s apartment. They had appreciated the food you toted around, but now they were almost more excited to see you show up. You would be hounded by questions about conspiracy theories, flirting advice, cooking tips, and strategy requests in board games. You would be given a cookie for the road, or a hug from somebody you had helped during the handoff. Sometimes you almost forgot that you were there on business.

“Sure,” you said now, already beaming. “What's up?”

He grabbed your arm and pulled you into the apartment. “Thoughts on the Hulk - Black Widow romance in Age of Ultron. Go.”

You wrinkled your nose, drawing laughter from Finch, Race, and Crutchie. They were nearest to the door, but other boys shouted in greeting when they heard the noise.

“Y/N! Hey!”

“Finally, a voice of reason.”

“Ayyyyyyye, Finch’s lover.”

Finch flushed, glaring in the general direction of the comment. You took in the look on his face, the way his mouth opened and closed wordlessly, and smiled. Your stomach kicked pleasantly, but you came to his rescue. “Just the co-parent of his food baby,” you said sweetly. “The kid wants you, babe.”

He took your offered pile of pizzas, relieved. “It has your eyes.”

You fluttered your eyelashes at him. “But your smile, thank goodness.”

Race made exaggerated smooching sounds. “Get a room.”

“We’re in his place,” you pointed out. “You’re the ones intruding. Our torrid love affair is only on hold because all of you are here.”

Buttons raised a hand. “My place too, and I think you guys should get a room whether the others are here or not.”

“Foiled again,” you sighed to Finch. 

“We’re stuck with this strange prostitution,” he agreed, giving you your tip.

“What can I say?” You started backing out the door again. “I’ll take my money however I can.”

You were closing the door when you heard Romeo’s complaint. “Aren’t you guys tired of pizza yet? Can’t we get something else next time?”

“Absolutely not,” Finch said.

You smiled on your way down the stairs. Finch’s lover. Fancy that.

 

 

The guys did not order the same thing every time, but you always expected to be bringing them a lot. Different kinds of pizzas, breadsticks, cheesy bread, sodas, or some variation thereof. It came as a surprise to you when an order came for their address, but for just the one pizza.

You knocked, but couldn’t hear a crowd. You expected to have a wait, but Finch answered the door immediately. “Y/N! Come on in.”

The first time you had been invited inside, it had made you uncomfortable. You were used to delivering pizzas to the door, not coming into the house. Now it was a second nature to come into Finch’s house. You would be able to identify the faint smells of cinnamon and coffee in your sleep, and your eyes always landed on the group picture from somebody’s birthday party that hung on the wall.

“Quiet night in?”

He shrugged. “More like the guys are having a big night out.”

You nodded. “Too busy to go?”

“I had something more important to do first,” he said, giving another exaggerated shrug. He was moving his hands more than usual, making it difficult for you to draw your eyes away and look at his face. 

You put the pizza on his table. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck!”

“I’ll need it,” he said. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“You remember last time you came, when you said that the only reason nothing has happened between us is that all of the guys are always here?”

You froze, heart hammering. Of course you did. You played that encounter over and over again in your head, remembering how embarrassed Finch had looked and how smug everybody else was. “Yeah.”

“Well,” he said with a bashful smile, “there’s nobody here now.”

The specific words you had used then were ‘torrid love affair’. You felt like your mind was going at a million miles an hour, but it didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. “I’m on the clock,” you managed.

His eyes widened comically. “Oh! No, no, that’s not what I mean,” he rushed. “I just mean, nobody else is here, so if we want to make plans, nothing can get in the way. If we want to start something, you know? Because I really want us to start something.”

You grinned, baffled and eager. You reached across his table to grab a spare piece of paper - a receipt, and used your pen to scribble your number down. “You already know the phone number that gets me to bring pizza, but this number gets me over here without pizza.”

He laughed. “Why would I want that?”

“I have no idea.” You pressed the paper in his hand, letting your fingers brush against his wrist. “But I’d be able to stay for longer than a minute or two, so that’s a plus. I’m off at nine, if you want -”

“I’ll text you,” he promised. His smile was dazzling. “The torrid love affair starts now.”


	27. Haircut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you're still doing requests, would you perhaps be interested in doing one where Jack gets a truly terrible haircut? Maybe he realizes the reader likes him bc they refuse to make fun of his awful, awful hair? (if this doesn't sound interesting to you, that's okay, too!)”

Jack stood in the doorway, looking doubtfully down at the beanie he gripped in his whitening knuckles. To wear, or not to wear? That is the question.

Jack knew that he was an idiot; he had been forced to live with himself for long enough to figure that unfortunate truth out. He was an idiot for eating so much cake that he threw up at his thirteenth birthday party. He was an idiot for refusing to use paint shirts, thus getting paint on literally every article of clothing he owned. He was an idiot for not having asked you out yet, though he had been trying to summon the courage for years.

Though all of those things haunted him, this newest mistake surpassed them all.

Les had been thinking for a while that maybe he would like to cut hair when he grew up. He would describe one of those barber shops, where they would use the straight razors to shave a man’s face. He had talked and talked and talked, no doubt leading up to something.

“What’s the point of all of this, kid?” Jack had cut through the subpar imagery.

“I want to cut somebody’s hair,” Les replied with relish. “I’ve been practicing, I swear!”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Les gave a bashful grin - that one that made his eyes glow. “I was thinking, maybe I could -”

“Absolutely not,” Jack said.

“Please?”

“Les, I have short hair.” Jack ran his hand over his soft hair. He loved his hair. He loved that sometimes you ran your hand through it, always admiring how thick it was. “If you messed it up, there wouldn’t be a way to fix it.”

“I would not mess up,” Les said, scandalized. “Jack, I can do this! You have to trust me!”

His head dropped, chin pressing into his chest. This kid would be the death of him. The actual, literal death of Jack Kelly. “Fine. If you mess it up, I’m getting a restraining order.”

Jack kept his eyes closed while the kid worked. He retreated into his head, hoping to ignore any sounds Les might make as he worked.

He thought about the shirt you wore the other day. It was your favorite one, he knew, and for good reason. It made your eyes pop; your skin seem even and smooth. It was a magical shirt, and Jack had to keep himself from touching you every time you wore it. Not inappropriately - just to touch the shirt, stroke your hair, drag a finger along the line of your jaw. He wanted to memorize you, so he could paint you with his eyes closed. 

“Jack?”

He would paint you sitting in your chair at the coffee shop. You liked how overstuffed it was, and the light from the windows always made it look like you had a halo.

“Jack?”

He furrowed his brow for a second, then pulled himself away from the image. “What is it, kid?”

“I know that I said I wouldn’t mess up, but I really messed up.”

Jack’s eyes shot open, head craning to look in the mirror. Les was wrong. He had not messed up. He had demolished Jack. Jack’s hair was uneven, bangs lopsided with chunks missing from an otherwise straight line. 

“What did you do?” Jack’s voice was admirably even, but Les shrank back.

“Not so good, that’s for sure,” he said weakly.

Jack had stood, opened his mouth, and closed it again. He didn’t want to say something he would regret, and he didn’t want Davey to chew him out for saying something stupid. He left.

He made an appointment with his usual stylist, but they weren’t able to fit him in until Wednesday of that week. Jack didn’t think he could get away with missing three days of school, and though it was tempting to just shave it all off, he was hoping a professional could come up with something less extreme.

So he stood in the doorway, trying to decide what to do. He was sure that Les had told Davey what had happened, so hiding it would be a challenge. Jack could either take his chances and let everybody see, or he could wear a hat and pray nobody said a thing.

Hat. Definitely hat.

The way he imagined the day going was about how it turned out. People asked him about the hat, knowing that he never wore one, and shrugged it off when he said that he had a bad hair day. Most people, anyway.

By the time they got to the library for study hall at the end of the day, he knew that a few of his friends were going mad with the desire to see how bad his hair was. Most of them hardly cared, and Davey had been careful to seem disinterested despite knowing the truth. Jack caught you shooting his hat longing looks, as though the curiosity was eating you away.

If you hadn’t been there, he might have shown the guys. He might have tolerated the laughter then, but you had said once that when you had a crush on a guy, sometimes his haircut could kill it. You had laughed, saying that it felt really shallow, but that a haircut could kill the weak feelings. Jack did not think that you liked him that way, but seeing his hair would surely kill any chance of it now.

“Jack,” Race whispered. He was nursing a little carton of chocolate milk that he had stolen from the lunchroom. “Strip for me.”

“Only if I can wear the hat during,” Jack said sweetly.

“I have cancer,” Finch said, “and my dying wish is to see your weird head.”

Jack flipped him off, but in that moment of distraction, Spot came up behind Jack and whipped the beanie off. Jack didn’t bother trying to cover his head; it would only make it all more painful.

Race spat out the milk, not even noticing that some of it was dribbling out of his nose. His eyes were wide, his mouth spreading in a slow smile. “What the fu -”

“My eyes!” Romeo had dramatically clamped a hand over his face, but Jack could see that he had spread his fingers a little to keep drinking in the sight. “They’re melting.”

Davey leapt forward and tugged the hat back down. “Les is a monster,” he said with gentle awe. 

With that, the table dissolved into laughter. Ah, Les. A monster. An artist. A hero. A beast. Through all of it, Jack saw you with a hand over your mouth, clearly trying to stifle you giggles. “Oh,” you said gently. “Oh, Jack, it’s really - it’s really not so bad.”

Race clapped you on the back. “Y/N, I know that love is blind, but no love is that blind.”

You looked down, embarrassed, but your giggled still broke through. “It’ll - it’ll grow back, Jack, don’t worry -”

Jack scowled at his abandoned homework. Love is blind, but you were seeing pretty clearly.

 

 

You sat next to Jack on the subway, but Jack avoided your gaze.

“Jack,” you said gently. “Really, it isn’t so bad.”

“I’m getting it cut on Wednesday,” he mumbled.

“That’s great,” you said evenly, “but I’m serious. You’re still the best looking guy in New York.”

“What,” he said dryly. “Not in the world?”

“Tom Hiddleston,” you said matter-of-factly. “Tom Holland. Chris Hemsworth. You look great, but I mean -”

“I get your point,” he said. He tried to scowl at you, but a hint of a smile broke through. Despite it all, you made him feel a little better. Race’s words still echoed through his head. Love is blind.

“Besides,” you began, pulling off his hat. “It’s still soft.” You ran your fingers over his head again, and he shivered.

“Y/N?” 

“Hmm?”

Jack swallowed thickly. “What did Race mean? About saying that love is blind?”

“It’s a common phrase,” you said with a shrug. Jack might have believed you, had your hand not frozen in his hair.

“You didn’t look like it was just a common phrase.”

You pulled away. “Well, there are a lot of kinds of love, Jack. Lots.”

“What kind of love was Race talking about?” Jack’s heart was hammering. How could his chest handle it? Surely his ribcage would have to split to release the pressure.

You looked out the window of the subway, watching the lights of the tunnel fly by. “The romantic kind.”

Jack reached over and ran his hand through your hair. “Maybe once my hair has grown back enough for love to be blind again, we could go out.”

You grinned at him, surprised. “My love is pretty blinding, and I’m not that patient.”

His own lips curled into a foolish, giddy smile. “Me neither. This weekend, then?”

“This weekend,” you agreed. You took his hand from your hair and held it. Jack looked at your fingers, winding through his own, and thought that maybe he could never paint you. How could he possibly paint you, catching every detail? He would start with your hand, in this moment, and memorize until he knew the dips of your knuckles and the ridges of your fingertips. 

Love is blind, but that just meant he would have to know you by feel. He would start here.


	28. Baseball!Albert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ok so I meant to ask for a fic where Albert teaches his GF to play BASEBALL. I'm not sure what my autocorrect is thinking.”

“I’m not playing,” you said stubbornly.

“You are playing,” Albert said, his jaw set. “You love baseball.”

Correction: you loved Albert playing baseball. You loved eating food at his games. You loved seeing Albert in his uniform, the intensity in his eyes, and celebrating with him after a win. You did not love playing baseball, and you did not love the idea of playing with his friends in their summer games.

It was a tradition for all of them. Some of the guys played for the school team, but all of them got together once a week all summer to play. When they were younger, it was just a few of them. Over the years more people came as new friends joined the teams, significant others were invited, and other friends came to watch.

The summer before, you had been an observer. You had been invited by a few of the guys, all of whom knew that you liked Albert. They also knew that Albert liked you, but during the weeks when dandelions still glowed yellow on the field, you had no idea. You went to pine, not to grow closer to him.

You initially expected to sit with Katherine, where she would watch Jack and you pretend not to watch Albert. As it turned out, Katherine was not the kind to sit and watch. She would rather play, so you sat on your own. It was much harder to hide your reason to attend when there was nobody to hide behind, but it was also much easier to talk to the boy you liked when there was nobody to tease you for it.

Albert would come talk to you when he wasn’t on the field, stealing bites of whatever you brought to snack on. He asked you out at Katherine’s back to school bash, and you had been looking forward to watching him play from the perspective of a girlfriend instead of as an admirer. At least, you had been until Albert announced that he wanted you to play.

“I can’t, Al,” you pleaded. 

His eyes glowed at the thought of you playing. Baseball was his greatest passion. He was on the school team, he always joined fantasy leagues, and he usually ended up as a team captain for his friend’s games. “Y/N, you’ll love it, I swear. It’s so much fun.”

You sighed. When you said that you couldn’t, you weren’t trying to be contrary. This was Albert, after all. He tried all sorts of things when he thought they would make you happy.  
  
You weren’t going to skimp out on something you knew he adored just because it wasn’t your cup of tea. “Seriously, I can’t. I don’t actually know how.”

He gaped at you. “You come to every single one of my games. How do you not know how?”

“Like, it seems simple enough,” you said with no small amount of embarrassment. “My head gets it. My body is totally clueless.”

“We had to play in gym class,” he said. His brow was furrowed. You wanted to smooth it over with your thumb, but it seemed more productive to explain.

“We only got to swing once or twice in a period. I’ve never actually hit a ball, I’ve never pitched, and I’ve never caught anything. I can’t play baseball.”

He frowned, thinking it over. Just when you thought he would cut you some slack and let you be his enthusiastic supporter, he brightened. “I’ll teach you! By the time the first game comes around, you’ll be an expert.”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to run away from that embarrassment. What would he say when he saw how terrible you were? Maybe you would be so bad that he was stricken speechless. That would be even worse.

He grinned, wrapping an arm around your waist. “It’ll be so much fun,” he promised. “Say yes.”

“Fine,” you sighed. “One lesson, and if I suck, that’s the end of it.”

 

 

“Y/N,” Albert laughed, “you just have to hit it.”

“And astronauts just go into space. Ben and Jerry just created the best ice cream ever. You just have to run to win an Olympic gold metal,” you scowled. You held the bat far from your body, as though you were afraid it might bite you. It was large and heavy, and no matter how you held it, swinging it was a slow and useless act.

He tossed another ball, far gentler than he ever would in a real game. You swung wildly, missing horribly, and lost your grip on the bat. It flew away from you, and though it was far away from Albert, he flinched away.

“I’m a hazard,” you declared.

“No,” he said. “No, you’re just inexperienced. You couldn’t possibly be any worse than Specs, right? He breaks his glasses every single game.”

“I’ll break his glasses and his nose,” you said miserably.

Albert came over for the millionth time and stood behind you to show you where to hold the bat. If life was a movie, it would have been a romantic moment. You would have been distracted by the hard lines of his body, and he would have gotten caught by your smell and how soft your skin was. 

Unfortunately, life is not a movie. You were more distracted by the blisters forming on your fingers, and you were bathed in the sour scent of nervous sweat. You had somehow covered yourself in dust, and it was sticking in the pools of sweat. You probably looked like somebody out of Oliver Twist, and you probably didn’t smell any better. Albert showed you where to put your hands on the bat and which muscles to use to swing.

“Another hour,” he urged. “Another hour, and we can get food.”

You sat on the ground. “A break first.”

He plopped down next to you, untouched by dirt and only faintly glistening with sweat. He grinned at you, soft and pleased.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, but the smile remained. “I’m just having a good time.”

Your brow furrowed. “Seriously? You like watching me butcher your favorite thing?”

He shrugged, taking one of your hands and massaging the tight muscles. You moaned, and he laughed. “I like doing my favorite thing with my favorite person. I don’t care if you’re any good at baseball, Y/N. I just want to share it with you.”

“If you rub my other hand, I’ll give you another hour,” you sighed. His smile made it worthwhile.

Just once, toward the end of the training, you hit one of his slow lobs. The bat connected squarely in the center of the ball, and flew over toward second base. You stood, speechless, watching the ball bounce.

“Run! Y/N, go!” Albert waved his arms toward the base, so you dropped the bat and ran. Your arms sang a chorus of agony, your legs were wobbly with the need to sit, and you ran through the symphony of aches and pains.

If it had been a real play, you would never have made it to first base. Instead, Albert turned it into the slow motion scene of a movie as he ran at a comically slow pace. He sang a loud, off key song to make the moment inspiring, and you laughed as you dashed from one base to another. He was only just picking up the ball when you got back to home. You through up two triumphant hands.

“And the crowd goes wild!” You cupped your hands around your mouth to echo the words, spreading your arms wide when Albert ran to you. He spun you around in a hug. You could almost pretend that you had done something amazing when he smiled like that.

“My girlfriend, the baseball star. I’ll be your trophy husband someday,” he teased.

You laughed, running a hand around to toy with the sweaty red curls at the nape of his neck. “I really shouldn’t play for your summer team.”

“No,” he agreed.

“But I’ll do more practices, just the two of us,” you offered.

He beamed. “Really?”

You pressed your lips against his, tasting the dust and sweat. It was less disgusting on him than you would have expected. “Really.”

“And the crowd goes wild,” he agreed cheerfully. He kissed you again, making you forget the state you were in.


	29. Stood Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was wondering if you have any crutchie x reader stuff? I can’t find much. He’s a great sweet character.”

If he wasn’t here in twenty minutes, you promised yourself, you would leave. Twenty minutes was way more time than anybody should need to text you to say he was running late, or to show up breathless and mortified that traffic was so much worse than he expected. Really, he should have texted you already, since you had been sitting in a booth for ten minutes.

The diner was pretty dead, thank goodness. There was an old man drinking coffee over a newspaper, a couple of teenagers in varsity jackets, and a guy about your age with a stack of papers and a red pen twirling between his fingers. It would have been worse to be stood up on a date if there had been a crowd of people wanting your table, with you unable to excuse your date’s absence.

Not that you had been stood up. Hopefully. Eighteen minutes.

Your waitress came back. She was a few years younger than you, with some angry red pimples and eyes that were somehow both weary and pitying. “Are you ready to order?”

You grimaced at the menu. You had been trying to act indecisive, but you had been looking for too long now. You weren’t even hungry anymore, really. Your stomach was a nauseous, embarrassed mess that only worsened as the minutes passed. You shot her another desperate look, but your problem wasn’t really with the food, so you ordered.

You thought about asking for one of those little crayon packets that came with kid menus, but you thought that it would be too pathetic. You sat on your phone instead, trying not to refresh your Tinder messages too often. You were at the right place, at the right time. He wasn’t.

Fifteen minutes.

You tried to tell yourself that you hadn’t been that excited for the date in the first place, and it was true. You had some friends that went on Tinder dates just to get a free meal out of it, and you figured that it wasn’t an awful mindset. Free food could make up for an awful date, and it would be a perk if you met somebody wonderful. You hadn’t been excited for this date, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt that he hadn’t bothered to show up.

Ten minutes.

You heard your waitress talking in a voice that was a little too loud. “You see that table over there? I think they got stood up.”

You hunched down a little, but you could feel the way the other patrons looked over. The tittering from the teenagers. The sad looks from the staff. You wanted to tell them that you weren’t that person - you didn’t just get ditched on dates all the time. This was probably a fluke. 

You didn’t say anything. You started tearing your napkin into pieces, fighting back tears.

Eight minutes.

“Excuse me?”

You looked up, hoping against hope that it was your date. He would say that he lost track of time, and you wouldn’t ever go out with him again, but he would be here. It wasn’t your date. It was the boy with the stack of papers. He had the red pen stuck behind his ear, and he was leaning on a slick little cane with the hand that wasn’t holding his satchel.

He gave you a crooked, lovely smile. “Is this seat taken?”

“Clearly it isn’t,” you said dryly. Both of you flinched, and you felt bad. It wasn’t this boy’s fault.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant - can I sit?”

“Sure,” you said slowly. There were still seven minutes, but if the guy showed up a half hour late, he probably deserved to see you sitting with somebody else. Even if you didn’t know why you were sitting with him.

He settled in, leaning the cane against the tabletop. “Look, I’m really sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Everybody is saying you got stood up,” he said. “That sucks, and I’m sorry.”

“It really does suck, but you don’t have to be sorry for anything,” you pointed out. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten stood up,” he said gently. 

Something about it made your eyes prickle again. It reminded you of being a kid, when you wouldn’t realize something hurt until somebody asked you if you were okay. You swiped furiously at your eyes. “What, because anybody would be lucky to go out with me, and he’s an idiot for not showing up?”

He shrugged. “Probably, but that’s not what I’m saying. Your date should have showed up, and he’s a jerk for not coming. You were expecting to eat with somebody, so I’m here to eat with you. It’ll make people look at you a little less, at least.”

You looked back over your shoulder, where you were still getting sad looks. He was probably wrong about everybody stopping with that, but it wasn’t like you had anything better to do. You hadn’t eaten yet, so if this guy wanted to stick around while you ate, no biggie. “I’m Y/N.”

He grinned again, and you found yourself smiling back. “I’m Crutchie.”

“Crutchie?”

“I didn’t always use a cane,” he said. “I can upgrade my style, but I couldn’t upgrade my nickname.”

“Caney doesn’t have the same ring,” you agreed.

The waitress came over with your food, and you were thankful that she didn’t comment on the change in situation. Crutchie ordered a milkshake, and for the first time, you looked back to where he was sitting before. There was a stack of dirty dishes.

“Oh, Crutchie, you already ate. You don’t have to -”

“There’s always room for dessert,” he said seriously. “Always.”

You made a sound of disbelief. “Always?”

“Yes. There’s a second stomach, just for sweet things. A regular meal doesn’t fill it.”

“I’m not sure I believe that,” you said. You were suddenly starving, and when you bit into a french fry, you had to suppress a moan. Greasy food was a foolproof way to soothe a heartache. 

“I took biology in high school. I’m kind of an expert on human anatomy,” he said. When you laughed, he beamed at you. Then again, your heart wasn’t aching so much.

By the time his dessert arrived, the two of you were playing hangman on a placemat. Sometimes he would use filthy words and phrases to make you laugh, and more than once you were in danger of having your drink come up your nose.

You held a napkin against your nose, scowling at him as you giggled at his most recent phrase. “If I choke on my own drink, I’ll -”

“What,” he teased. “You’ll ditch me? Leave me high and dry?”

You paused. You didn’t have much to hold against him. It was nice not to have met him before, since there was no reason to worry about what he thought of you, but it meant that you had little to threaten him with. “I’ll leave you to pay my bill,” you said triumphantly.

“I was going to do that anyway,” he scoffed.

“Definitely not,” you said. He was already doing you a favor by keeping you company. If anything, you should be paying his bill.

“Were you going to let your date pay?” His lips curled into a sardonic smirk. Neither of you had mentioned the date since he first sat down.

“Yes,” you said. When he gave you a triumphant look, you frowned. “He was my date. I don’t even know you.”

“Did you know much about the guy you were supposed to be meeting up with?”

“No,” you admitted. “It was a Tinder date. We’d only talked a little.”

He gaped at you for a second, then laughed.

“What?” You felt oddly defensive, but you didn’t want to be made foolish for doing something that so many other people tried and succeeded with.

“We’ve been talking this entire time,” he pointed out. It was true; the two of you knew plenty about each other. You knew that he had come to grade papers for the philosophy class he was a TA for. He knew about your least favorite coworkers, and about how your current job was nothing like you’d imagined for your future. You knew that he had been in the foster system all through childhood, and that he had never been adopted. He suspected that it had something to do with his disability. You knew that his smile made your stomach flip, and he had carefully put his foot up against yours a half hour earlier. You hadn’t pulled away. “You know more about me than you did about him, but I can’t pay?”

“This isn’t a date,” you said stubbornly.

“If it was, could I pay?”

You gaped at him. “I mean - yeah?” It came out like a question, though you meant it. What had you told yourself? Free food is always good, and if you happened to meet somebody great, double great.

He pulled out his wallet, pleased. “We’ll call this a date, then. I’ll leave the homework at home next time.”

“Next time?” You were grinning at Crutchie.

He scribbled his number onto an empty corner of his placemat. “Totally. You’ll have my full attention.”

He left to pay the bill, and you smiled down at his phone number. You left before he could come back, writing a thank you on the mat. You would kiss him goodnight on the next date, when you had rid yourself of any lingering embarrassment. Crutchie would get your full attention.


	30. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey lovely! I was wondering if I could request a Davey fic where the reader is school friends with Davey and has a crush on him but never goes for it. Then Davey disappears from school, cue sad pining, but the reader runs into him after the strike, realizes where he's been, sees how much more confident he is now, and is like wow now he's even farther out of my league than he was before. But of course Davey has liked the reader all along…”

Tell him. Come on, it’s the turn of the century. Times were changing, the time for progressive thinking was settling in, and surely telling a boy how you felt was trivial in comparison. With that in mind, how bad could it possibly be to lean over to Davey and tell him how much you liked him?

You turned a little so you could see him work on the math problem sets. He was perfectly neat, just like always. Crisply ironed shirt, perfectly even hat, and hands scrubbed clean of all of the dirt that coated the city. His tongue was sticking out a little as he wrote.

You turned away, fighting a smile. Maybe you could ease into saying it. Start out casually. How could you link a conversation about the trolley strike to a conversation about him being the love of your youth?

That wouldn’t do at all.

“Davey?” You croaked his name, and he turned to you. You had failed to come up with anything to say to him, so you just blurted something that you thought would make sense. “Can I borrow a pencil?”

His gaze flickered down to your hand, which held a perfectly good pencil. “Is there something wrong with yours?”

This is the time to become a very good liar, Y/N. “No,” you said honestly.

He blinked at you, obviously and understandably confused, but agreed to give you his spare pencil. You took it, schooling your face into a mask of indifference when your fingers brushed against his during the hand off. 

“I’ll give it back later,” you promised. You scribbled a little on your paper, caring more about looking productive to Davey than you did about actually being productive.

“Y/N?” You looked back at him, smile already softening your features. You liked hearing him say your name, the way it sounded crisp and concise. When he said your name, it sounded like he savored every part of it. He was smiling a little too, peering at you from under his eyelashes. “You can keep it.”

“Thanks!” The word came out an octave too high, a mite too eagerly, and far louder than it needed to be. The teacher made a pointed remark about focusing on the work, so the two of you turned back to the math problems. You grinned down at them, at the pencil, at the image of Davey poking his tongue out as he worked.

 

 

You went to school the next day, filled with things you could have said to him about your pencil the day before, but lacking in anything to say to him that day.

You could have said that the eraser wasn’t working.

Davey sat in the desk next to yours, just like he did every day. He smiled at you when he slung his bag on the row of hooks at the back of the classroom. You smiled back, but you felt as though it was sitting strangely on your cheeks.

You could have said that the lead was squeaking while you wrote, and it was distracting you.

“How was your night?” His question caught you a bit off guard, but he was earnest. He was almost always earnest, and you liked the way it sat on his young face.

“The same as every other night,” you said with a crooked smile. “Nothing new.”

“Is that a good thing?”

You shrugged. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“I like it when things are the same,” he said. “I like knowing how things are going to go.”

The teacher called the class to attention, so Davey turned away from you. You wanted to reach over to him to ask him a question.

What if things change for the better?

What if the change makes you a new friend, or something more than that?

What if the change is unpredictable, but brings you something unpredictable and awesome?

What if I walked you home after school today?

You were debating the pros and cons of continuing the conversation at lunch when somebody came in with a note for the teacher. He read the paper once, twice, and looked at Davey.

“Mr. Jacobs, your mother wants you to come home straight away. She wants you to pick your brother up from class and bring him with you.”

Davey blinked, face void of any feeling or understanding. “Did she say why?”

The teacher looked at the paper, debating how much to say. “It’s your father,” he said gently.

Davey was out of his seat in a heartbeat, shouldering his bag and darting out the door. He did not come back in that day, or in the days following.

 

 

It wasn’t uncommon for people to get into accidents at work. Factories could be hazardous places, and everybody knew someone who had come out the worse for wear. Some had visible injuries, like Davey’s father’s leg. Others, like your grandmother, had a sickness of the lungs that could only worsen after a day breathing in puffs of cotton.

It was not uncommon for children to drop out of school to help their parents. School wouldn’t do you any good if you starved before your education could get you anywhere.

You went to Davey’s house a few days after he left in a hurry. You had heard that his father was injured, and you knew that Davey would be needed at home for a while, but you didn’t want him to fall behind. He was the smartest boy in your class, no contest.

Davey’s mother answered the door, eyebrows rising in surprise when you asked for her son. “He’s not home.”

“Oh,” you said. That hadn’t occurred to you when you planned out what to say. You held out a stack of books, all held together by a string. “I brought Davey his schoolwork.”

She took the pile, eyes welling up with unexpected tears. “Thank you.”

You turned to go, but looked back. “Davey will be back soon, right? He won’t be long?”

She gave you a shaky smile. “Of course. David will be back in school as soon as his father is well.”

You had to fight the urge to run when you walked through the streets. Not to run anywhere specific; you wanted to run until you forgot the look on Mrs. Jacobs’ face. You wanted to run until you couldn’t picture all of the people living on the streets with bum legs, and the empty seats at the school house that had belonged to kids who worked instead of coming back.

You did not run, but you had to choke down the urge with each day that Davey was not in his seat. He didn’t like change, and this had not been predictable at all.

 

 

You searched the pavement for change on the way to school, praying to find a penny so you could read about the governor’s speech now that the newsboy strike had ended. The little guys won for once, and the city was pulsing with the joy and shock of it. It was the turn of the century, after all, and the little guys weren’t quite so little now.

A grubby penny sat in a puddle in the street, heads up. You scooped it up with a grin. Your parents would have a paper when you got home in the evening, but you wanted your own paper. You wanted to tuck it away in your box at home, so you could remember the day the kids changed everything.

You came up behind a newsboy, confusion setting in even as you reached out to touch his shoulder. You were struck by deja vu, body stiffening and heart quickening before you knew why. It was the set of his hat, the straight line his back made as he stood. He turned, and you stopped breathing.

“Y/N!” Davey blinked at you, surprised, but his face lit up in a smile. “Hey! It’s been a while.”

You stared at him, shocked. Your hand was still suspended in the air, barely brushing the fabric of his shirt. He was dressed differently. He wasn’t as clean looking, though he was tidy, and his clothes were more casual. The state of disrepair suited him.

“Can I help you with something?” He was still smiling, but he seemed a little concerned now.

“Actually, yes. Can I have a paper?” When he gave you one, something else occurred to you. “Wait, were you in on the strike?”

He nodded, pleased.

“So, what, you got to work for a little bit, then promptly went on strike?”

“I worked for a day before the strike,” he said sheepishly.

“But you won,” you said. “Incredible.”

“It was alright,” he agreed.

There as a snort of amusement from behind Davey, where a young boy was selling a stack of papers. “It was better than alright. Davey practically led the whole thing.”

Davey shot the kid a look. “That’s not true and you know it, Les. Don’t lie to Y/N.”

Les looked at you with renewed interest. “Y/N? From school?”

You nodded, smiling at the kid. This must be Davey’s brother. “We’re in the same class.”

He turned back to Davey, who had stiffened. “Is Y/N the one you talk about all the time?”

He flushed. “No.”

You hid a smile behind your hand. “Probably because I brought him his books after he left school.”

Davey shot you a relieved look. “Right. That’s it.” Les rolled his eyes, but wandered off after a wealthy looking woman with a full looking handbag. “I have a question about that, actually.”

“Yeah?” You knew that you should have left for school already, but you couldn’t look away from the sharp cut of Davey’s vest, the way the blue of his shirt made his eyes pop. Leader of the strike or not, he felt bigger than he had at school. More confident, or maybe just less afraid. He felt like he was more than he had been, and he had already been too much for you.

“Do you want to come over after school sometime to walk me through the work? Just to, you know, make sure I understand it all?”

You grinned. You had been overwhelmed at the idea of getting to walk him home a few weeks prior, but now he was willing to invite you in. “Definitely. When do you get off work?”

He licked his lips thoughtfully. “Come to my house at seven?”

“Absolutely.” You walked backwards a little, not wanting to turn away. “Seven it is.”

“Y/N?” There is was again; he said your name like each part of it was to be savored. “When I start school again, could I walk you home?”

You fought the urge to laugh, but let a smile light you up. “Do you know when that will be?”

“No,” he said. There was a hint of regret in his voice, but he met your eyes. “But when I do?”

“Absolutely,” you said again. Your cheeks ached from your smile, but there was too much joy rushing through you to dim it. “It’s an open invitation. You can walk me home whenever.” You were walking on air on the way to school. You were floating. You were flying. Change may have terrified Davey, but it sure suited him. That suited you just fine.


	31. Packing Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “hii *slides candy and adog photo* can we get a more finch fluff please?”

There was something strange about seeing Finch in your bedroom, helping you pack your things before moving into your dorm. He had been in your room many times, but this was somehow more intimate.

Like most teenagers, you had buried your childhood in boxes and bags, under your bed or in your closet. All of that younger you was locked away, hidden from the eyes of people who you didn’t trust with that innocence. When Finch came into your room, there were only traces of that kid. Now he stood knee deep in your childhood, smiling at stuffed animals and scoffing at your CD choices.

He had wanted to hang out, maybe as a goodbye bash, but you still had to pack. He offered to help, saying that helping with a chore was better than not seeing you again. You hadn’t chosen a college too far from his, but neither of you were naive enough to believe that nothing would change.

He used his toe to nudge a bag of old schoolwork with distaste. “Why do we have to go through all of this? It’s not like you’re taking it with you.”

“My parents want me to get rid of stuff,” you said glumly. They had thought that as long as you were moving out for the school year, you might as well sort through stuff you didn’t need anymore. They were making you say goodbye to children’s books and old toys that had faded from your memory but still felt important when you looked at them.

“I have no idea why,” he deadpanned, holding up an old hairbrush with missing bristles.

“This is my entire life,” you said. You didn’t know why you were defensive, but seeing him with your old things was a little odd. You felt the need to justify every single thing, but not all of the stuff was easy to explain to someone who hadn’t known you then.

Finch had come into your life in high school, and they had been four very good years. Four years of sitting together at sporting events, seeking refuge together at lunch, and a guaranteed partner in any class you shared. Four years of slow dances at homecoming. Four years of hoping he would ask you to homecoming, but taking the singular dances because they were far, far better than nothing.

You ran your hand over the worn down fur of your teddy bear. “These are all of my memories.”

“You have all of us as your memories,” he said. 

“For now,” you said wistfully. “But next comes college, and most of you won’t be there to remember with me.”

“We will be,” Finch said firmly. His jaw was set when he met your eyes. “We will be there.”

“Not scared at all about us drifting apart, huh?” You were teasing him, but you were truly curious. Finch claimed to be fearless, but what about now, when everything was changing? What about all of you, inseparable for years, but separating now? You had never had to try to stay friends with them, but now it would take more effort to keep them than it would to lose them.

“Of course not,” he said. He looked away, the muscle in his jaw ticking. He was worried, you realized. “You and I won’t drift.”

“No,” you acquiesced. “You and I are a unit.”

“Like macaroni and cheese,” he agreed.

“Movies and popcorn.”

“Peanut butter and onion sandwiches.”

“Actually, now that you’ve reminded me that you like those, I think I will drift from you,” you said. “I will actively leave you and your gross eating habits behind.”

He smiled sweetly. “I’ll come after you. I’ll breathe on you once I catch up.”

You wrinkled your nose. “I’m pretty fast. I think I could get away.”

“You’re fast, but I’ll wait it out. I’m in it for the long game,” he said. His smile was light, but the words came out heavily. They felt like a promise.

“Hey,” you said suddenly. You had been rooting through a box of old things when you found your old Truth or Dare game. It was probably a gift from some birthday or slumber party long since past, stupid and silly and forgettable. “Check it out.”

At first, the two of you just pulled out the sticks to read the truth or dare it offered. You marvelled at how risky the game felt when you were young. The truths were so shallow, asking about most embarrassing memories or for you to identify which person in the room had the most beautiful eyes.

(“I’ll have to say Y/N,” Finch said gravely.

You fluttered your eyelashes at him. “Oh, Finch, stop it. You flatter me.”

“Fine. It’s probably one of the other people in the room,” he said, gesturing to the otherwise empty bedroom.

“I was trying to be humble. Keep flattering me.”)

Somewhere along the line, you started following the instructions. You had to do the macarena until it was your turn again, so Finch made sure his turn took as long as possible. Finch had to lick your foot, which flustered you more than you cared to admit.

“Gross,” you said.

“Kinky,” he corrected with a crooked grin.

“Of course you think so. Anybody who likes peanut butter and onion sandwiches can’t be trusted.”

He laughed, only joining in for the end of the macarena with you before offering you the cup of sticks. You pulled one, smiling when you read the dare.

“Call somebody and tell them you love them.” You remembered this dare. As a kid, the only phone numbers you knew off hand were your best friend’s and your home number. Neither one felt all that risky, so the dare was never scary. Now, with all of the contacts in your cell phone, you had to think a little harder.

Finch grinned at you. “Gonna call the love of your life? You have time for a tear soaked, Notebook-worthy one night stand before leaving for college.”

“You’d have to leave for that,” you pointed out.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be leaving,” he said with a jaunty wink.

“You’re either really confident or really pervy,” you said. You pulled out your phone and scrolled through the contacts. You could call a family member as a cop out, but that would be lame. You could call one of the guys, like Race or Romeo, who would surely get a kick out of the game. You might have done so, but you were sure they would all come over if they heard you were playing. You loved them, but wanted this time with Finch. You were running out of time, so you would give him everything you had left.

In a way, that thought was what cinched it for you. You called his cell phone.

He blinked when it rang, shooting you a bewildered smile. “Hello?”

“Hey, Finch,” you said. 

“Y/N, what a pleasant surprise.”

“I just wanted to tell you that I love you.” You smiled back at him, making sure to keep your voice totally sincere. You didn’t want to taint your words with sugary sweetness or wicked sarcasm. Things were changing, so you wanted to give him a truth to hold on to.

He leaned back against the foot of your bed, making himself comfortable. “That’s nice of you.”

“Not so nice,” you said honestly. You could hear your voice coming from his phone, and it was a little trippy. “The whole college thing is kind of freaking me out, and I wanted to tell you before I lose the chance to.”

His eyebrows rose. You could see the gears turning in his head as he realized that this was for real. This was a Talk. “You won’t lose the chance.”

You shrugged. “College is different. New people. New opportunities. Fewer old people. More lost opportunities. This seemed like something you should hear.”

“And here I thought this was a game of Truth or Dare,” he said dryly.

“And what’s a game of Truth or Dare without surprising truths being weaseled out? I’ve gotta go. I think I have to have an important conversation,” you said, and hung up.

Finch did the same, eying you cautiously. “You love me?”

“Sure. How could I not?”

He smiled at that. “Very true. I can’t blame you.”

“Nobody ever could,” you agreed. Your heart was hammering in your chest, but you just waited for his response. Finch was not one to be rushed.

He stared at you for a while, twirling one of the sticks between his fingers thoughtfully. “Nobody could blame me for doing this, either,” he finally said. He leaned forward and firmly pressed his lips to yours. You had always thought that you knew his mouth by heart; the way it moved when he talked, the different smiles it bore for different emotions. As it turned out, you had a lot to learn. Kissing him was not the same as watching it move - it was a new language. Your tongue ran over the jagged edge of one of his lower teeth, where it chipped after he rollerbladed into a tree. You learned the feeling of his chapped lips against your skin. You tried to memorize it all, but you could gladly keep exploring this one part of him for hours.

You cleared your throat when he pulled away, breathless and smiling. “I definitely don’t blame you. That was necessary. Commendable, really.”

His face lingered near yours. “We’re a unit. College won’t ruin that - we’ll just be changing the type of unit.”

“Okay,” you said. You kissed him again, wanting to test the waters of this change. This was a change you could get behind without worrying. You would get rid of many things when you left for college, but Finch would not be one of them.


	32. Protective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was wondering if you could do one of like a female reader who is constantly being checked out by the Delanceys, which pushes the other Newsies to have an intimidating chat with the brothers. I hope that isn’t super specific, but I just love it when the Newsies are protective!”

“Twenty papes, please,” you said to Wiesel. In another life, maybe asking for the papers would have been the scariest part of your morning. Maybe you would have been more afraid of the day ahead, not knowing if you would make enough money to get by. Maybe it would have been Weasel himself, surely judging each kid based on sales.

That would have been a much better life.

In this one, you weren’t scared of asking for the papers. You were very scared, on the other hand, of the brief encounter with the Delanceys when you bought them. 

“Well, hello there,” Oscar said when you walked up. His eyes roved over your body, though nothing you wore was incredibly flattering.

You gave him a tight, closed-lipped smile as you reached for the papers, but he held them just out of reach. You took a deep breath, already tensing with humiliation and rage. “Good morning, Oscar. Morris,” you added with a nod to the other boy.

“You know,” Oscar said conversationally, “I know a way for you to make a little more money.”

You frowned at him, crossing your arms. If you told him you didn’t care, it would only draw this out. You weren’t strong enough to just take the papers, so it was best to play it out. “Oh?”

“Undo the top few buttons of your dress,” he said. “Smile a little more.” He brought the papers within reach, but he didn’t let go until you responded.

“I smile plenty,” you snarled. “Just not at you.” You snatched your newspapers and retreated, knowing that you had not won. As long as you could feel their eyes on you while you left, you were little more than a dog retreating to lick her wounds. 

“Or,” you heard Morris mutter as you left, “she could skip the papers and just take off the dress.”

Oscar laughed until he gave a cry of pain. You turned to see Finch, holding his slingshot with a sheepish smile. 

“Sorry,” he said to Oscar. Oscar had a hand cupped over his upper thigh, dangerously close to a far more sensitive area. “I’s still working on my aim.” Everybody knew that Finch did not have to work on his aim, but nobody fought him on it. Arguing with an armed boy is foolish, regardless of how nonlethal the weapon was.

You forced laughs as the other newsies jeered at the Delanceys, but you couldn’t shake the desire to cross your arms over your chest and cross one leg over the other.

 

 

In a way, the Delanceys were right. As a young girl, you had dressed in a way that made your gender unclear. It was easier to sell that way. Safer. As you got older, it became clear that you would sell more if people knew you were a girl. The more you flirted, the more likely a man was to buy a paper. If you played your cards right, you could get the same guys to come back day after day. You were one of the only newsies to have regular customers.

It took some maneuvering to keep the flirting within constraints of work, but you were usually able to do it. The newsies would keep half an eye out to make sure nobody hassled you. You would be sure to avoid making promises or encouraging commitments. As a general rule, flirting was safe. The Delanceys were the exceptions. They could say what they wanted to you, touch you in a way that fell just short of inappropriate, and look at you in a way that went beyond inappropriate. There was nothing you could say to stop them.

Buying papers from them made it impossible to avoid them, and the need to keep a good business relationship made it impossible to give them the beating they deserved. The newsies knew that, but they decided as a group that there were other ways to put a stop to your fear.

“Y/N,” Race said sweetly one morning, “I forgot my matches back under my pillow. Be a doll - go get them for me?”

You blinked at him, surprised. He normally just stole matches if he needed them. “Seriously?”

“There’s an officer hanging ‘round my spot,” he lied. “Gotta keep a low profile.”

You shrugged, already walking back to the Lodge. “Save my spot.”

As soon as you rounded the corner, the boys turned on the Delanceys, who were in the process of opening the gate.

Finch whipped out his slingshot and let loose, this time not missing the crotch of either boy’s pants. Each one doubled over, leaving themselves vulnerable to the boys who shoved them against the gate and held them there.

Finch grinned wolfishly. “Looks like my aim got better,” he said to Morris. Morris’s mouth was frozen in a grimace of pain and nervousness, legs buckled a little as the waves of agony pulsed through his core.

Jack stepped forward, clapping a hand of approval on Finch’s shoulder. “Thank you all for coming to this meeting.”

“If you don’t call off the dogs -” Oscar snarled, but stopped when Race angled his cigar dangerously close to the boy’s ear. He froze when he felt the heat of the smouldering cigar, perhaps smelling the burning hair.

“The dogs have a bone to pick,” Jack said with a cruel grin. “Color us paranoid, but we think there’s a problem with the two of you and Y/N.”

Both boys were still now, the depth of their trouble finally sinking in.

“If you’s bothering her, that stops now,” he said simply. “We’ll know if you don’t.”

“And what’ll you do about it?” The cruel angle of Oscar’s mouth was less intimidating when his voice shook, but his point was a valid one.

“Finch’ll shoot you again,” Jack said. He leaned in close to Morris, smirking at the sheen of sweat on his face. “But we won’t stop with pinning you to the gate.”

“Wiesel won’t sell to you anymore,” Oscar said defiantly. “You’ll be easy to replace.”

“True enough,” Jack agreed. “But we’s the best. Getting more guys is easy, but you’ll lose money on ‘em. They won’t keep up.”

Albert, who had a hold on one of Morris’s arms, grinned. “And once we’s selling elsewhere, nothing stops us from coming after you.”

When Morris swallowed audibly, Jack grinned. He gave a curt nod, and the newsies released the Delanceys. They scrambled to their feet, brushing dirt from their clothes and walking to the stand. Their heads were held high, though they did not meet anybody’s eyes when they readied the stand for selling.

The square was strangely silent when you came back, but you were too tense to notice. Race gave you an exaggeratedly enthusiastic hug when you handed him a box of matches, pretending not to notice your distant smile.

You bought your twenty papers, but when you moved on to grab them from the Delanceys, they didn’t say a word. Oscar didn’t look at you when he handed you your papers, already looking to Morris for the next boy’s stack.

Your knees were weak with relief as you walked away, though you were a little confused. No teasing, no hungry eyes. Nothing at all. It was something you fantasized about, but now that it had happened, you had no idea what to do about it. You joined an argument with Specs and Mush about what to name the cat living outside the Lodge, allowing yourself to hope that things were getting better.


	33. Fake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Could I please have modern!Crutchie fluff?”

When you were a sophomore in high school, you mentioned to Crutchie that enthusiastic PDA was the most effective way to gross you out.

“Seriously, what could possibly make somebody think that’s okay?” You gestured to the couple under the bleachers, who were sloppily kissing each other.

“We’re teenagers,” Crutchie said with a shrug. “We want to go at it like rabbits. That’s pretty tame, all things considered.”

“I can see their tongues,” you said. You ignored his statement, since you didn’t know how to respond to the fact that he said “we.” You liked Crutchie, but you didn’t think you were close enough friends to acknowledge sex stuff without making things weird. As far as you were concerned, he was a sweet boy who had never heard of sex. He probably didn’t have a penis.

“Not if you don’t look.” He laughed, effectively killing the irritation you had savored. He covered your eyes with one hand, using his cane to nudge you forward in line. The two of you had been nominated as snack runners during the football game, so you were supposed to get unholy quantities of popcorn, soda, and candy for your friends.

“It’s not just the looking,” you insisted. “Like, that’s terrible, but now if I ever try to talk to either of them, this is what I’ll think of. I don’t want to see them together, and I’ll always worry that the other one will show up if I see one alone. It’s a platonic turn off.”

“Good to know,” he said.

“Don’t worry; I’m sure you’d never be that gross.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He flashed you a lopsided grin. “If I ever want to get rid of you, I just have to get somebody to hang all over me.”

You wanted to scoff, but it was an interesting idea. Get out of conversations by making them uncomfortable. You wouldn’t have to be rude. You wouldn’t have to let people know that you don’t like them. You’d just have to get a guy to latch onto when you need an out.

You said so to Crutchie, and he laughed. You stared at him until the humor faded. “Wait, seriously?”

“Sure,” you said. “If a boy came and wrapped himself around me, or kissed me, or something like that, would you want to keep talking?”

“No,” he said slowly. 

“Exactly! I always like talking to you, but everybody else? As if.”

“And if anybody gross asked you out, you’d have an easy out,” he said. His eyes were starting to shine.

“This could work for you too!” You were starting to get excited. Crutchie had ordered the food, so you were gathering as much in your arms as you could carry. He kept glancing back to you, amusement and intrigue warring on his face. “You hate being rude, but this way you wouldn’t have to be. You’d just signal your person, and they’d rescue you.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” he admitted. “I mean, it’s a terrible idea, but maybe an effective one.”

“If I had a dude who would agree to do this, I would be set,” you said wistfully. Race would be a good option, if he wasn’t such a man ho. You knew some of the other guys had their eye on somebody. Some of them would be willing, but nobody would buy into you dating them.

Crutchie paused, halfway up the bleacher stairs. He looked down at you, uncharacteristically serious. “I could do it. Until I found somebody to be with for real, I mean.”

You swallowed, simultaneously nervous and thrilled. “Totally. All bets are off the second one of us likes somebody else.”

“It’s a deal,” Crutchie said. He put a hand out to shake yours, but retracted it when he remembered that your hands were full. He tapped the cane against your calf gently, as though he was bumping fists. 

You tried not to think about it as you handed out food to your squad. It would probably never happen. Crutchie was probably too nice to ever call on you, and you would probably be too nervous to ask him. It was a deal, but the kind made on a night out with friends. A deal made because it was funny, not because it was necessary.

 

 

For a long time, you thought nothing of the deal with Crutchie. You said nothing about it when you got stuck in annoying group projects. You suffered through conversations with socially inept classmates. You would shoot him exasperated looks, but never desperate ones.

The day Crutchie shot you a desperate look, you decided to cash in. He may not have asked, but Angela was a close talker who seemingly never brushed her teeth. She laid a hand on his arm and laughed. Crutchie gave a dim smile, looking helplessly at you from across the room.

You stood casually and walked over to them, pulling a chair up alongside them. You sat close enough to have your thigh pressing against his. “Hey! What are we talking about?”

Angela looked surprised, but kindly filled you in on something her brother had said the week before. 

While she talked, you grabbed Crutchie’s hand and started playing with his fingers. You smiled at him, leaning into his arm. He smiled back, a little surprised but not unwelcoming.

“That is so funny,” you said to Angela. “Your brother sounds wild.”

“He really is,” she said brightly. She slowly extracted herself from the conversation, leaving you with Crutchie.

“I owe you one,” Crutchie said reverently.

“Nope. This was the deal. You and I are buffers for each other,” you said.

He grinned. “I am liking this plan more and more.”

 

 

It didn’t stop after sophomore year. Crutchie would sling an arm around your waist if he saw you talking to a boy he knew was bothering you. You would kiss him on the cheek in greeting if he looked uncomfortable in a conversation. He would offer to carry your books if he saw you trapped in a walk-and-talk situation.

Your friends knew the agreement, more or less, but they bought into it less as years passed. By senior year, they were desperate for the two of you to stop pretending and start dating. It was funny to you, since you knew for a fact that Jack had only asked Katherine to homecoming junior year so she could say no to Darcy.

They started dating that night, but that was beside the point.

Jack teasingly asked if you and Crutchie would be going to the dance together this time around, and you shrugged.

“Probably. I hate dancing with people who just wanted to get out of dancing alone. If I go to the dance with Crutchie, that probably won’t happen.”

Jack cringed, and you didn’t understand why until you turned to see the look on Crutchie’s face. His normally good-natured face was slack with disappointment.

“What?” You blinked at him, confused. “Was there somebody else you wanted to go with?”

“No,” he mumbled. He pushed his lunch around on his tray for a second, but quickly gave up and left. 

You watched him leave, confused. “Did I say something?”

“You said that you would go to a dance with Crutchie because it was less awkward that way,” Jack said. He looked irritated with you.

“No - at least, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was -”

“Don’t tell me,” Jack sighed. “Tell Crutchie. The kid would have said yes to going with you, but you shouldn’t have said it as though you didn’t want to do it.”

You looked at you lunch, appetite gone. You would catch Crutchie in class later to ask him what was up. You’d apologize if needed, but it was more important to know what he was thinking. Crutchie knew how you felt about him. He knew that you would rather be with him than with somebody else.

Hopefully.

 

 

There was a fire drill, so you made sure to place yourself near Crutchie on the bleachers while attendance was taken. At least, you tried to. He avoided your gaze, standing a ways off. You kept your eyes on him the entire time you were outside, but he didn’t look over once. He looked everywhere except at you.

He was avoiding you. That little dope was purposefully ignoring you, and that wasn’t allowed. Friends don’t avoid friends, and friends talk to each other when there’s a problem. If Crutchie wasn’t going to seek you out to talk, you would force him to tell you what was bothering him.

You jogged after him when your class was dismissed. When you got to the bottom of the steps, you made your move. You dragged Crutchie under the bleachers, just out of sight.   
“Alright, talk to me.”

He fidgeted, not meeting your eyes. “Isn’t this a little too public? What if somebody sees us?”

“We’ll just start making out,” you said with a wink. “Nobody would think anything of it.”

“That’s actually what I’ve been thinking about.”

“Us making out?”

“No,” he said. “I mean, kind of, but no.”

You gave a nervous laugh. “Kind of?”

“It’s just - we said that we would stop if there was ever somebody else, but doesn’t doing this make it impossible for there to be anybody else?” He looked at you, bangs falling into his eyes. You wanted to brush them aside, but you didn’t want to distract him. “If everybody thinks we’re dating, and we act like we’re dating, won’t that get in the way of there being other people in our lives?”

You suddenly felt a little queasy. “Do you want there to be other people?”

“That’s the problem,” he said. He grabbed your hand urgently. “We’ve been doing this for two years. I haven’t wanted anybody else, not since we started. It makes me wonder if maybe -”

An adult voice sounded from behind you. “Hey, what are you two doing -”

Crutchie’s eyes widened, terrified, and you leapt into action without hesitation. You grabbed Crutchie by the front of his shirt and dragged his face into yours. He gave a muffled gasp of surprise, but drew you closer. His cane clattered to the ground, forgotten as he leaned into you. You sighed into him, the small sound swallowed up by his lips and his teeth and his tongue and wow.

His lips were a little chapped, and he smelled faintly of some chemical he must have been using in AP Chem, but it was Crutchie. You knew the calluses on his right hand from the cane, though you had never felt them cradling your cheek before. Running your fingers through his hair was so much more satisfying like this, as opposed to something done just for show.

The teacher made a noise of disgust. “God, can’t you wait until school is over?” He tapped your shoulder, making you draw reluctantly away from Crutchie. “The drill is over. Go back inside.”

He followed the two of you back to the building. You tried to catch Crutchie’s eye, but he looked dazed and confused. You felt about the same.

 

 

“Davey,” you said with finality, “I did a really stupid thing.” The library was pretty empty, so you didn’t worry about people hearing anything they shouldn’t. Davey was the only person you thought would be helpful, and this was the best place to talk to him.

He looked up from his book, unsurprised. “Again?”

You ignored the comment. “I kissed Crutchie.”

“Finally,” he said with a smile.

“For show,” you continued.

Davey rolled his eyes. “Come on, Y/N. You two haven’t been doing things for show in ages.”

“It was because a teacher caught us talking under the bleachers!”

“You wouldn’t have kissed him if you hadn’t wanted to,” he argued. “You could have talked your way out of it, and you know it. What’s the problem?”

“Before we kissed, I think he was trying to tell me that we should date,” you said.

“We’ve been telling you the same thing for months,” Davey pointed out. “I don’t see the problem.”

“I don’t like him that way!” When Davey stared at you, unconvinced, you felt the need to elaborate. “I like holding his hand, sure. I like touching him, and I always want him to talk to me, and kissing him was kind of the greatest, but I don’t want to date him.”

“Sure you don’t,” Davey said. He reopened his book, knowing that your answer had made things clear enough without his help.

 

 

You caught Crutchie on the way out of the school. “We should probably finish that talk.”

“I think I said everything I needed to,” he said.

“You didn’t finish,” you said. 

He looked up, thinking through it all. “No, my main point was that we should probably stop.” His ears were turning pink.

“I distinctly remember something else,” you scowled. “That you haven’t been interested in anybody else in ages, and that you wondering if . . .”

You watched the tick in his jaw as you walked alongside him. He was moving faster than usual, but you weren’t sure if he wanted to get away from you, embarrassment, or the crowd of kids.

He didn’t speak, and you sighed. “If we should start dating,” you offered.

He looked at you, surprised and maybe a little hopeful. “That’s an idea,” he said lightly.

“Not a bad one,” you agreed. “Definitely more effective than fake dating. And it might be nice to get caught kissing instead of kissing because we got caught.”

He laughed. “And it might be nice to hold hands when nobody is watching.”

“To go to a dance together because you asked, not because I didn’t want somebody else to.”

“Speaking of,” he said sheepishly. “I know you already thought we’d go together, but do you actually want to go with me? Really go with me?”

“Sure,” you said. You smiled, and without checking to see if anybody was looking, you grabbed his hand. If anybody was watching, they would see something they’d been seeing for two years. When you looked down, you were seeing something happening for real, for the first time.


	34. Distracted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you like the idea maybe you could write a fic where one of the newsies (I’m indecisive as hell on who) is desperately trying to get the readers attention while they’re playing a game/ watching tv or just generally doing something”

You frowned at the pile of assorted wood pieces. Race had called you and asked you to help put an IKEA shelf together. You had tricked yourself into thinking that between the two of you, it would be a piece of cake. That may have been true, if your boyfriend wasn’t Race. When Race asked you for help, he really meant that he wanted you to take over.

Race was sitting on the floor next to you, but he was playing Flappy Bird on his phone.

“You know that you’re the only person in the world who still owns that, right?” You looked over the building instructions again, but none of it was in English.

“I know that I was the only person smart enough to keep it. I’ll bet I could sell this phone for a bajillion dollars.”

“You could use that money to hire an expert to put your furniture together,” you said. You had no idea how to do this. You had never had to do anything like this. You bought furniture at Walmart and Goodwill. You persuaded your dad to do difficult things for you.

“No way,” he snorted. “I’d use that money to floor my apartment with mattresses. Everything would be a bed. I could be in bed all day.”

You laughed, pulling out your phone. “What’s the shelf called?”

Race made an exaggerated guttural sound, and when you shot him a confused look, he shrugged. “That’s how it’s spelled.”

You glanced at the instructions. “It’s called a Hjelne.”

He nodded sagely. “That’s what I said. Why do you need to know?”

You waved your phone. “I wanna Google it.”

He looked up from his phone and smirked at you. “Oh, is it too hard for poor Y/N? Do you need help?”

Your eyes narrowed. He couldn’t do it either. That was why he had called you over. “I could definitely do a better job than you could.”

He stuck his tongue out. “Prove it.”

You were a sucker for challenges like that. You liked proving people wrong, Race most of all. Granted, he thought that you were made of magic and talent in everything you did, but you would gladly spend your life trying to prove him right. If he was going to tease you about being unsure of where to start, you were going to make the best shelf IKEA had ever seen.

“Watch me,” you replied. You didn’t break eye contact while you put in headphones and turned on some music. You were going to ignore him until you won.

Unfortunately, turning on music didn’t mean that you weren’t attuned to his voice and his body. “Let me know when you need help! If you get over yourself sooner instead of later, we can order a pizza once we’re done.”

You were a little hungry, but you would starve before making him feel self-important about something you knew he was no better at. You started sorting the pieces by size, stalling. What were your resources? The pictures in the instructions, Google, and YouTube. That would have to be good enough.

 

 

You started by Googling it, like you had said before. You scrolled through articles and advertisements, all while trying to tune out the incessant boyfriend.

“That’s cheating,” he griped.

You found a blog that put together furniture tutorials.

“Half of the fun is not knowing what we’re doing,” he tried.

You watched a YouTube video with a step by step process.

He sat back, sulking. You could still see the interest on his face, so you didn’t think much of it. You had a vague idea of how to put it together, so you got to work. Maybe you would get an early pizza, after all.

 

 

Race was easily bored, and it showed.

“Y/N,” he crooned. You had been slowly putting the shelf together. It was coming together nicely, but Race had gotten tired of watching you. Flappy Bird was less interesting than it had been. Really, he had imagined the two of you wasting the day away together. The shelf had just been an excuse, but once he teased you, you were sold on the idea of finishing it. He didn’t care about the shelf. He never had. You could light it on fire, for all he cared. He just wanted to spend time with you. “Wanna take a break?”

You ignored him. You were going to finish it if it killed you.

“Please? We could watch American Horror Story. Or whatever you want. I’ll make popcorn.” His eyes were getting brighter at the thought of it.

You were screwing one of the support beams to the shelf pieces. You were listening to the Spotify Discover Weekly playlist, and it seemed like none of the recommended music had anything to do with anything you had listened to lately.

“You’re right,” Race agreed. You hadn’t said anything, but you couldn’t correct him without replying. “The shelf being right there would distract us.” He scooted closer to you, hope injecting itself into his voice. “We could play Clue, or Monopoly. We could play a card game, no betting involved.”

The guy in the YouTube tutorial made it all look so easy. Was it supposed to be that easy?

“I don’t care about the shelf,” he pleaded. He crawled in front of you, making it impossible to avoid looking into his blue, hopeful eyes. “I just wanted to spend time with you, but you’ve been ignoring me the entire time.”

A smile twitched at your lips, but you peered over his shoulder to grab at the pile of screws.  
“We could go to my bedroom and hang out. It’s quiet there, and there isn’t anything to build.” He pressed his lips against your neck, and you found yourself wanting to be distracted.

Shelves. Shelves, beams, and proving to Race that you didn’t need his help. 

His lips had latched onto the curve of muscle between your neck and shoulder. “Come on,” he breathed into your skin. “Please? It’ll be way more fun.”

He was right, but you wanted to prove him wrong. Win, Y/N. Win a war he hadn’t realized he was waging.

Sighing, he laid his forehead against your shoulder. “Fine. You win. You can build the shelf. I’ll just be over there, ordering a pizza to eat by myself.”

You felt a little bad for him while he retreated. He had invited you over to hang out, after all. You sighed. “If you get my order, I’ll take a break for an hour after eating. We can play Twister or something then.”

His eyes glimmered at the “or something.” You pretended not to notice. “Stellar. Your pizza it is.”

He was practically dancing as he put in the order on the phone. You didn’t bother hiding your smile. You could probably put together a better shelf, but he would always be better at boosting your mood.


	35. Depressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “hey allly could i bother you for some more jojo content? maybe something where the reader has been feeling really depressed and not doing anything at all and jo cheers her up and stuff. if not that’s chill”

JoJo: wanna hang out tonight?

You considered. You smelled your sleeve and winced. You’d have to change your clothes. You would have to shower. You would have to eat, unless you were willing to lie to JoJo about it. You would rather not lie to him. Brushing your teeth seemed like a lot, but mouthwash didn’t seem any better.

Hanging out with JoJo was one of your favorite things, but getting to that point seemed like too much.

Y/N: I can’t. Sorry

You had been feeling exceptionally not-yourself lately. You had been depressed for a while, but you had associated it with feeling bad. Negative feelings. Sadness. Dread. Self hate. Self doubt. Then, a few weeks ago, something had changed.

You felt nothing at all.

It had seemed like such a good thing at the time. That numbness was a relief after the ugliness for so long. It had seemed great, but now you were stuck with that void, and everything seemed insignificant. JoJo mattered more than anything else, but getting ready to see him was too much.

It was early afternoon, but you were laying in the dark, still in bed. No point to getting up now. You burrowed deeper into your nest of blankets and started playing a movie on your laptop. It wasn’t very good, but you had already watched everything that seemed good.

 

 

There was a gentle knock on the door, and you winced when a blade of light cut across your face.

“Y/N?” You would have known JoJo’s voice anywhere, but it took you by surprise to hear it there and then. “Your mom let me in.”

“Hey.” You felt vaguely embarrassed that he would see you like this, but it was too late to change it now. He was here uninvited, but it was nice to see him.

He flicked on the light and looked at you, taking in the nest of blankets and chip bags. “Have you gotten up today?”

“I used the bathroom a few hours ago.”

He smiled briefly, but wiped it away. He was a smiley, good-natured boy, but he always pushed you to be at your best. He didn’t care what that meant, as long as it was your best. If acing every test was you at your best, he was wholeheartedly behind you. If a C in a class was the best you could do, he would congratulate you.

Now, looking at you, he was seeing you at your worst. You couldn’t remember the last time you showered. You didn’t have the motivation to cook, so you ate junk. This was your worst, and though you didn’t expect anything more from yourself, JoJo deserved the best version of you.

“It’s been a rough day,” you said apologetically.

“Have you eaten yet?”

You nodded at one of the bags of chips. “Does that count?”

“Nope. I thought we could go out to eat, but I think a night in sounds prime,” he decided. “You’ll go shower, and I’ll make something to eat.”

You wrinkled your nose. “JoJo, I really don’t want -”

“Y/N,” he said. His voice was gentle, but his words were firm. “I know that you don’t want to. I swear, you’ll feel a little better once you’ve showered. We’ll take this one step at a time. You’ll shower, and I’ll make food.”

Your head flopped against the pillow. Get up for JoJo. Your limbs felt too heavy. Your eyes shot open when you felt JoJo’s arms go under your arms and knees. “What are you doing?”

“Carrying you,” he said. His wiry arms had to shift you around some, but he swiftly whirled you into the bathroom.

You had to choke down a laugh. The smile on his face would make you think he was carrying a bride over the threshold, not a depressed teenager into a bathroom. “Put me down!”

“My pleasure.” He dropped you on the edge of the tub. “You reek, Y/N.” He waved a playful hand in front of his nose.

You shrugged. “I told you I couldn’t hang tonight. Don’t blame me for not getting ready for you.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I want to help. Wash up, and I’ll get food. It’ll help, I promise.” He pressed his lips to your temple for a second before leaving.

You showered. It was wearying, but you did feel a little lighter once you washed away days worth of sweat. You didn’t bother shaving, but you felt a little more human. The food wasn’t incredible, but eating something warm was nice.

JoJo chose a movie that the two of you had watched a million times, but it was nice hearing him laugh at his favorite parts. His shoulder was leaning against yours, and that was what really felt nice. As good as it probably was to bathe and eat real food, having JoJo there was a million times better.

Tomorrow would be another day, and it would probably be just as hard, but you weren’t all alone. JoJo couldn’t make you better, but he would do little things to help. That was nice. Maybe accepting his help wasn‘t such a bad thing. He wanted your best, but he was always willing to help you get there.


	36. Pampered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “could you do a modern au with jack jelly x reader, where the reader is so stressed that jack drops everything and completely pampers them and cuddles them and all that good stuff ✨✨ thanks love!”

When Jack got his studio apartment, he said that it was for the aesthetic of the thing. A painter needs a studio, he said, and Jack was nothing if he wasn’t a painter.

When Jack got his studio apartment, you teased that he just wanted to talk to you while he painted. He wanted to paint a landscape while watching you make breakfast. He wanted to keep half an eye on the movie you were watching, but still get the stupid perspective assignment done for his painting class.

In the end, it didn’t really matter why he got the apartment. As far as either of you were concerned, it was the best apartment he could possibly have gotten. It meant that in the midst of your mental breakdown, he couldn’t possibly miss your true breaking point.

It wasn’t the noise that caught his attention. It was the silence.

You had been studying for one of your final exams. The review of each flashcard, each concept, each page of notes, was punctuated by worrying and irritation. You had calculated the exact number of credits you needed each semester to graduate on time, but you had not anticipated the possibility of failing a class. You had gotten sick partway through the semester, and though you had caught up in everything else, you were still struggling to keep up in one of the classes.

If you failed, you would either graduate late or have to take on extra credits for the rest of college. Jack had been able to feel the waves of anxiety pouring from the couch, had been able to hear the fear in your voice as you worked through the material. Until he hadn’t.

It took him a second to notice. Davey had just moved into a new place, and Jack was working on a painting to give as a housewarming gift. He had taken a picture on the view from Davey’s bedroom window in his childhood home, and was trying to recreate it. He was trying to figure out the shadowing on the terrace across the way, but his attention was broken.

What was bothering him? The faucet wasn’t dripping. It hadn’t started raining. You hadn’t called him name. You.

He looked to the now silent living area, where you were gripping your head in your hands. Your hair poked through your fingers in jagged spikes. He walked over, not sure exactly what you would need from him. Some days you needed him, but other days you needed him gone.

“Y/N?”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t even make it clear that you had heard him. Your eyes were wide and unfocused. Jack put a hand on your shoulder, frowning when he felt you trembling. He sat on the couch next to you and dragged your body to his. For a while, nobody talked. It was all Jack running his hands through your hair, gauging the speed of your breathing by the rise and fall of your chest against his.

It might have been minutes before you started talking, but it might have been hours. Jack wasn’t sure that time and fear could coexist.

“I can’t fail,” you whispered.

“You won’t,” he said resolutely.

“If I fail, I’ll have to stay for another semester.” You liked school, but both of you knew that it was too expensive to fail. Another class would be well over a thousand dollars, maybe closer to two grand. 

“We’d figure it out,” he said. He was speaking into the shell of your ear, watching your hair flutter when his breath brushed it. “You’d live here, rent free. I’d get a job at Walmart or something to help you. You’d be part time instead of full, so you’d be able to work.”

“You can’t get a job at Walmart,” you huffed into his collarbone. “You said that it would eat your heart.”

He had said that. He liked to joke that people in big stores had to sell their souls to work there. It was the only explanation for the empty, zombie-like look on their faces. “It can’t eat my heart,” he said. “My heart is already yours.” He crooned the last words, sickeningly sweet and high pitched.

You laughed, and he felt the last of the tension leak from your shoulders. “Gross.”

He sat up, ignoring your complaints. “I’m gonna order a pizza. We’ll eat, watch a movie, and make ice cream sundaes.” He thought that maybe he would rub your shoulders later, but if he said it out loud, you wouldn’t be able to get it out of your mind until he did it. He would surprise you with it later.

“I have to study.” You looked forlornly at the notebook on the table, but Jack snapped it shut. 

“I’ll pop quiz you while we get everything ready.” He did, asking you about vocab terms while you lit scented candles. He had you sketch diagrams while he picked a movie. You tried to give crash courses on different lessons while he scooped the ice cream into bowls.

He held you again while the movie played. He felt you start to laugh.

“What?”

You had a hand in your hair. “Jack, you got paint all over me. What did you do, drag the paintbrush through my hair?”

He remembered running his fingers through it. He hadn’t thought about washing his hands or taking off his paint shirt before coming to your emotional rescue. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Ugh.” You snuggled in a little closer. “Slob.”

He started rubbing his thumb into a knot of tension at the base of your neck. You melted. “It’s like a dye job, but cheaper.”

“It probably looks awful.” Your words were half sigh, half moan. He grinned.

“Think of it as your own look. It’s like fashion week, Y/N. They all look weird, but it’s supposed to be the new thing.”

“So paint smeared hair is the new thing?”

“Everybody will want me to run my hands through their hair,” he promised. He could feel you smiling.

“They’ll have to get their own boyfriends to do it,” you said. You were sounding increasingly sleepy, leaning all of your body weight into him while his hands worked on your back and shoulder. “You’ll be too busy doing mine.”

“You’re right.” He tugged on a strand of hair for emphasis. “Your hair is the only hair I want to pretty up.”

“As it should be.”

Jack knew you would pass. You worked hard, and you knew the material when the fear wasn’t emptying your brain. You just needed him to push back the fear sometimes. Now, holding you, he thought that he wouldn’t mind always being the person to do this.


	37. Tell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can I request a (longish) fix where race & the reader are close friends (flirty friendship as race is who he is) and they end up admitting they like each other but choose to keep it secret for w/e reason. so they act normal around the group but slip up and kiss in front of the group? Thanks

“Tell me that I’m the most attractive friend you have,” Race said smugly. The two of you were alone at the lunch table, thank goodness. If he pulled this when the others were around, you would get teased relentlessly.

“You are the most attractive friend I have,” you intoned. You had missed math the day before because the school counselor wanted to talk over your schedule for the next year, so you needed Race’s notes. You knew he would give them to you, but it was better to play along than to antagonize him.

“Come on, Y/N,” he said. “Like you mean it. You know you would jump these bones if you were allowed to. ‘Race, you are super-mega-foxy-awesome-hot.’”

“Race,” you said dully. You filled your voice with every ounce of disinterest you could muster. It was hard to say the words without sounding like you meant them, since you sort of did mean them. “You are super-mega-foxy-awesome-hot. Can I please copy your notes?”

“Sure,” he said happily. “Meet me in the parking lot after school. We can to Bigby to go over them.”

“Seriously? Anybody else would just give them to me and cut me loose.”

“Anybody else isn’t me, Y/N. That’s why you like me so much. We both know you’ll be confused by it if I don’t tell you what we were doing, so let me talk you through it,” he said. The good humor had faded, leaving the earnest boy who only seemed to come out when nobody else was around. It was hard to remember that he was off limits when he looked at you like that. It was hard to remember a lot of things when he looked at you like that.

“Alright,” you said grudgingly. It was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea. He would try to walk you through the concepts, but you would be too busy thinking about his smell, or his eyes, or the sound of his voice, and all of it would get all muddled up in your head.

“You don’t have to sound so annoyed,” he said. “I know you’re stoked.”

You stopped trying to hold back a smile. “Totally. Listening to you talk about math for an hour is, like, my favorite thing.”

“It’s the teenager porn scenario,” he agreed. “Grown ups like repairmen and pizza delivery boys. You like tutors and Race.”

You laughed. “If you don’t rip off your shirt in the middle of the study session, I’m going to be really disappointed.”

“It’s a date,” he said with a cheery wink. Romeo dropped his tray on the table and swung himself into a chair, so the conversation ended.

 

 

You and Race had been friends all through your school years, and that had never been a problem. You grounded him, and he loosened you up. It worked. Sometimes you thought it worked a little too well, since you’d had a crush on him for several of those years. 

Sometimes it felt like the world was taunting you with it. You ended up in classes together without planning it. You would be randomly assigned to the same groups for assignments. You would end up the last two in a group in need of partners at school dances, so you would slow dance with him. No matter how well you knew him - how many of his vices and virtues you discovered - you still would rather be with him than be without him.

You would have risen to the challenge of that taunt by asking him out, by kissing him, if it wasn’t for this stupid promise some of the kids in the friend group had made. It had been a middle school pact, made in the middle of the night, but all of you had stuck to it.

You had all promised not to date each other. It had seemed so smart at the time; you wouldn’t have to worry about ugly breakups splitting up the friend group. You wouldn’t have to worry about one kid being the third wheel in a group that used to be all unicycles.

You hadn’t realized that the pact was still a legitimate thing until last fall, when you found out that Albert used to have a crush on you. He told all of you, a little tipsy, that he totally would have gone for it if the lot of you hadn’t promised to avoid inter-romance. The others had agreed that it was smart, and you had realized that you and Race couldn’t happen, not now. 

Maybe the others would understand. Maybe they would think that it was worth the risk. Maybe they would hate you for making a move, even if Race wasn’t interested at all. You couldn’t be sure, so you just tried to reign yourself in.

It was a lot easier when Race wasn’t leaning over your shoulder to watch you do a practice problem.

“It’s seriously just long division,” he said.

“With functions! That’s, like, a million times harder. What sadist thought this was a good idea? What’s even the point?”

Race launched into an explanation of why dividing functions was useful, but you tuned it out from the second he started. He was wicked good at math. Normally you liked hearing him chatter on about it, but he hadn’t pulled back, and you could smell the minty gum on his breath. You could see the light catching on his pale eyelashes. You could see the fraying threads on the collar of his t-shirt.

Math was the last thing on your mind.

You tried to distract yourself by finishing the problem. Race would pipe in occasionally to mention rules or missed steps, and you eventually got the right answer.

Race gave a low, self-satisfied whistle. “You did it.”

“We did it,” you corrected with delight. He had been right earlier. You would never have figured it out on your own. Now it made a little more sense, and you had finished the problem with the help of your best friend, and everything was okay.

He beamed. “You are so right, Y/N. I shouldn’t be so modest. Tell me that I’m not just hot, I’m a genius.”

You grinned back at him. “You are way more than a pretty face, Racetrack Higgins. You are absolutely brilliant.”

He stared at you. His mouth was hanging open a little, and you realized that you had forgotten to sound sarcastic. You had spoken sincerely.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you said lightly. Too lightly. “You told me to say it.”

“Sure,” he agreed. “I didn’t tell you to mean it.”

The sound you made was less of a scoff than it was a croak. You cleared your throat when he smirked. “You may get to tell me what to say, but you don’t get to tell me what I mean.”

“So you do mean it?”

“I’m not blind,” you mumbled. “Of course I see that you’re good looking. And I’d have to be stupid - more than stupid - not to see that you’re smart.”

He grinned at you.

“It’s not a love confession,” you snapped. “Just an observation.”

“It’s totally a love confession!” His eyes were bright. “You loooooooove me. You think I’m super-mega-foxy-awesome-hot.”

“How long did it take you to come up with that compliment? You’ve used it twice in one day.”

“You want to kiiiiiiiiiiiiss me,” he cooed.

“You’re the one who refused to give me the notes unless I agreed to hang out with you alone,” you snapped. He froze. The pause only lasted for a few seconds, but it was long enough for your heart to stop. “Wait, seriously? This was all because you wanted to spend time with me?”

“We’re friends,” he said defensively. “We can hand out alone.”

“And you keep making me call you handsome,” you continued. A goofy smile spread across your face.

“Because I am!”

“You like me,” you said smugly. “I’ll consider this your love confession.” His mouth opened and closed, but it settled into a sheepish, sweet smile. His bravado was gone, but everything it defended was just as wonderful as the humor had been.

He stared at you, delighted, before grabbing your shoulders and kissing you. It was quick and hard, so instinctual that he was nearly as surprised as you were.  
  
For just a second, all that mattered was that he liked you. He knew you liked him. For just a second, you were two teenagers who had stopped toeing the line. You saw reality hit him at the same time it settled on you, wiping away the joy of the moment.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “The others will kill me.”

You leaned in to kiss him again. “As long as we’re both getting killed, we might as well make the most of it.”

He was pale, but his lips kept curling into a smile. “Y/N, we can’t -”

You knew. You knew he was right. You liked Race, and Race liked you, but there was more to it than that. Love doesn’t stay between two people, and neither does hate. To be with Race would change things with your friends, and a break up would ruin many more things. Both of you had promised, and neither of you were selfish enough to break it.

“Right,” you said. You swallowed thickly. There was a lump in your throat, but you refused to cry. “Right. Back to normal. I can’t jump your bones. It’s not allowed.”

You flipped to the next page of notes, wishing that the world was as black and white as math was.

 

 

“Are you and Race fighting?” Specs was standing next to you in line, waiting for your turns up to bat. Baseball was probably the least physical unit in gym class. It was a lot of standing around, and even when it was time for you to move, usually you messed it up.

“No,” you said. “Why?”

“Because you guys aren’t talking.”

That was true. It was funny - knowing that you liked each other hadn’t changed anything, technically. You were no closer to dating. The feelings were the same. Still, it had changed everything. Looking at him filled your chest with a horrible ache, like your ribs were splitting open. The sound of his voice made it impossible to focus on anything else, but it made you feel like you couldn’t breathe. 

“No,” you said again. “We aren’t, I guess. But it isn’t a fight. It’s just one of those things.”

Specs gave you a sidelong glance. He was a smart kid, and you wondered if he had some idea of what had happened. “That sucks. You too are fun to watch. You make a good team.”

“We really do.”

“You should try to fix it, whatever it is,” he suggested.

You shrugged. “It’s not that easy. It isn’t just us.”

“Fix everything else too.”

You grinned ruefully. “That’s not that easy, either.”

“I know,” he said. When he said it like that, low and sad, you thought that he really did.

 

 

It had been Race’s turn to go to the counselor, this time missing history. When he asked to borrow your notes, meeting his eyes made you feel like you had butterflies everywhere. Your stomach, your chest, even your fingertips were alight with fluttering. He liked you. The truth of it echoed through your bones while he waited for you to answer him.

“Wanna meet in the parking lot after school? We can go to Bigby and I can go over them with you.”

It was a daring move. Maybe it was better not to be alone with him, now that you knew what he tasted like and how his hands would feel on your shoulders. Even so, you saw your hope reflecting in his eyes.

“It is hard to get the entire story into a set of notes,” he said slowly.

You grinned. “It really is. You won’t have to read between the lines if I tell you what’s there.”

“It’s a - a plan,” he said. You heard the word ‘date’ on the tip of his tongue. Even without saying it, it followed you around after you walked away.

 

 

“This shouldn’t be so hard,” he sighed. Race tossed his pencil onto the table, rubbing a hand over closed eyes.

You blinked at him, surprised. “Uh, you’re right. The Civil War isn’t that hard.”

“Not that,” he said wryly. “I mean this. You and me. Everything has been so weird since last time.”

“Oh.” You lowered the notebook to the table. The conversation was stilted, even now. Hearing him say it broke the tension, and it was a relief. A painful easing of the pressure. “Yeah. Yeah, this has been harder than I thought.”

“It’s just - we’re friends. We always have been,” he said. “And it works, you know?”

“Yes,” you said with relief.

“And I wanted to kiss you all the time,” he continued. The words only stoked the pain in your chest, but it was better than having nothing change at all. “But it was okay. I could handle it. We had a - a romance of the minds.”

You smiled. Yes, you did have that. All of your conversations had edged around the feelings, using sarcasm and jokes to mask the truth of everything you said. “And then we had to go and acknowledge it all.”

He sighed. “We’re idiots.”

“Race,” you said. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I want to kiss you all the time.”

He smiled. “I know.”

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do,” you said quietly. If he said that you should do nothing, you would scream. The sound would break you open, grief and anger erupting out of you. It was only a matter of time.

“We can’t tell anybody,” he replied. “But maybe -”

“We could just not tell anybody,” you finished.

He beamed at you, that light returning to his eyes. “You just want to jump my bones, you poor, desperate thing. Y/N, tell me -”

You kissed him, cutting his words off. Whatever he wanted to hear you say could be heard through the press of your fingertips against his jaw and the curl of your lips into his.

 

 

You wanted to hold his hand. You wanted to link your ankle around his. You wanted him to put his arm around you.

No. No, none of those things were allowed, and you knew it. You had agreed to the arrangement, so you could hardly be miffed about it. Getting to do those things when you were alone with Race was better than never doing anything at all.

“We should go roller skating today!” Elmer was grinning. There was a chorus of groans and cheers across the table, but Elmer didn’t budge. “There’s always a discount on Tuesdays.” 

“I like skating,” Romeo offered.

“I like skating too,” Crutchie said. You laughed, but some of the others groaned. He beamed back at you. “Y/N thinks I’m funny. Y/N has good taste.”

“Are you in?” Elmer looked at you hopefully.

You offered a regretful smile. “Can’t. Race and I are studying after school.”

“You guys have been studying an awful lot lately,” Finch commented.

Race shrugged. “Gotta get ready for college.” It was an out of character comment, and everybody knew it. Race never thought far ahead. Why would he care about college?

You gave an over the top sigh. “You are too right, Finch. I’m gonna get into Yale, just by trying to get Race into the community college.” You had nothing against the community college, of course, but it accepted people immediately upon applying. 

Race shot you a mock hurt look. “”You’re going to eat those words when I get better grades than you.”

The two of you were not planning on studying. You were going to see a movie, just the two of you. Studying was one of the only things the two of you could use as an excuse, since a lot of the others would gladly hang out with the two of you if it seemed remotely fun. Studying history or math or whatever was not fun, so they didn’t think twice about what else you might be doing.

“You could study after,” Henry wheedled. “We hardly hang out at all anymore.”

You shrugged. “Okay, but only because I like watching Crutchie skate.” Crutchie laughed, spurring on a new round of teasing that took the focus off of you.

There was no point keeping the relationship a secret if you stopped hanging out with your friends anyway. It was hard to balance it all, but you would manage.

 

 

There were other people at the rink, but your friends dominated the building. Anywhere you went, be it was the arcade or the rink or the concessions area, you would run into people you knew. It was strange to maneuver on a pair of skates, but it was fun. Race had a ready made excuse to rest a hand on your waist or to grab your hand. He would skate backwards to talk to you, or slow himself down to dance by your side.

Being there made you remember why you were willing to hide the relationship. You didn’t want to lose Romeo’s silly flirtations. You liked watching Mike and Ike squabble. You enjoyed debates with Davey and logic-less arguments with Albert. A breakup wouldn’t mean that you lost all of that, but it would put it all at risk. It would change everything. The more time you spent with Race, the more you thought it was worth the risk.

At the end of the evening, some of the guys decided to have a Race. A roller derby, so to speak. You volunteered to be the referee. You leaned against a back wall, chatting with Crutchie, who sat on a bench on the other side. 

It was fun to watch the way everybody moved. Jack would weave in and out, sometimes cutting people off to throw them off their balance. Albert was stiff and swift. Specs would pick up speed and coast along, letting the momentum carry him. It was Race, however, that moved with a fluidity that carried him just ahead of the pack. 

You threw up your hands when he won, but he didn’t stop in his journey. You tried to dodge out of the way when you realized that he was shooting straight at you, but you weren’t fast enough. He ran into you, pinning you to the barrier. He was grinning when he kissed you, elated at his win.

You kissed him back, not thinking. It was hard to think when he was there to melt into. It was Crutchie’s low whistle that brought you back.

You turned to look at him, cheeks burning, but Crutchie was grinning. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. This is the most interesting thing I’ve seen all day, and I saw Buttons hit the wall so hard he blacked out.”

You gave a snort of laughter, but realization sank in further. You slowly turned back to the other boys, who were gaping at you.

There was a second of silence. It was Specs that broke it, and you would never be able to thank him enough. “Well, it’s better than when you weren’t talking.”

Jack’s eyes were soft when he agreed. “Yeah, that was weird.” Then he shrugged. “Y/N could do better, but hey. There’s no accounting for taste.”

Race made a sound of disbelief, but Albert cut him off. “No kidding. Don’t take his crap, Y/N. Make sure he uses protection.”

Now Race’s face was a mask of outrage, but you could see the happiness in his eyes. “Y/N could not do better!”

You slugged his arm hard enough that he rolled a few inches away. “Please. I’ll leave you for Crutchie one of these days, and you’ll see how wrong you are.”

As was wont to happen, the conversation dissolved into several mini arguments. You couldn’t keep the smile off of your face. They hadn’t cared. Race slipped his hand into yours, and you squeezed it. Secrets were great, but it was better when you didn’t need them.


	38. Bread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “May I request a Jojo/reader where the reader delivers bread for a living and runs into Jojo regularly?”

“Heading out, Y/N?” Your boss poked his head around the corner, watching you shrug your coat on.

“Yeah. Did you need something else?” You doubted it - the majority of your work was delivering the bread orders to local restaurants. Even rich people would rather pick up an order themselves than pay a kid to run it by. Most places wouldn’t be needing bread this late, so it couldn’t be another order.

“Could you throw out the stale bread?”

“Sure,” you said casually. You packed it into an old bag and carried it out the back way, but darted through the alley instead of tossing the food. It was stale, sure, but not inedible. Years earlier, the baker and his family would have eaten the stale stuff. Nowadays he did well enough to eat fresh baked goods, so he tossed the stuff that couldn’t be sold.

At least, he thought he tossed it.

You couldn’t bear to throw away good food. When you first got the job as his delivery kid, you would stuff as much of it into the folds of your clothes as you could. You would eat what you couldn’t carry. Your parents did their best, but it wasn’t until you had the stale bread that you understood what it was like to go to bed full. 

It was getting dark when, pockets bulging with slightly smushed, firm rolls, you ran into some boys on the street. Their cheeks were not quite hollow, but they were small. Their eyes were older than their bodies, so you supposed that they weren’t eating enough to grow. You were in an alleyway, hoping that nobody would see you and think you were a thief. It wasn’t exactly stealing, not if it was going to end up in a trash can anyway.

They looked at you, eyebrows raised when you pressed your hands against your pockets.

“We ain’t thieves,” one of them said. He had dark eyes and a strong jaw, set with irritation.

“What? No - no, that’s not -” You faltered, not wanting them to misunderstand why you were standing like that. 

“We won’t pick your pockets, kid. You don’t look like you’d have much worth taking. Move along.” He turned dismissively.

“I don’t think you’s thieves,” you said indignantly. “I just need to keep a hold on my stuff.” You pulled a roll out of your pocket. “See?”

He stared at the loot, then laughed. “How many of those do you have? They’s practically falling out.”

You shrugged, pulling out a few more. Not nearly as many as you had, but enough to prove your point. Your grin faltered when you saw the way the boy and his companions stared longingly at the handfuls. “Want some? It’s not fresh, but it’s pretty good. Tastes fine, and all.”

“No,” he said resolutely. The other boys deflated a little. The one had a fat cigar in his mouth, and he gnawed on the tip. The other had a slingshot sticking out of his trousers. Both were too thin for their own good. Your mother would have said that the wind would knock them over, but that hard look in their eyes made you think that the wind wouldn’t dare.

“Why?” You were almost offended, which was stupid. He was telling you to keep the food you had always intended for yourself, but now it felt like an affront. “Is stale bread not good enough for you?”

“It’s your food. We ain’t taking it.”

“I have enough to share,” you said. There were three of them, one of you. That was fine.

“I got other kids,” he admitted. “I don’t like leaving some mouths hungry, but not others.”

You swallowed thickly, looking at the rolls. “They can have ‘em.”

He shook his head, and you could see the annoyance in the other two. “You wouldn’t have the food if you didn’t need it.”

“Need and want ain’t the same. I want food. You need food. Show me the other boys, and we can split it up.”

He had taken you to them, begrudgingly thankful. You had passed the rolls out to them, unable to keep track of the hungry faces. You were a little sad about the empty pockets when you left, but you would rather have a hollow stomach than that hollow feeling in your chest you had when you saw the boys.

Now you brought the group all of the stale bread whenever you had the chance. You understood the hunger once you realized that they were Newsies, and you no longer wished you could keep the food for yourself. The more food you brought, the more you got to know the kids.

You had been talking to Jack, Race, and Finch that first night. Over the months that passed, you got to know Crutchie, who sometimes tried to give you his share. You never took it. Romeo would flirt, but he never really tried anything. Finch taught you to shoot. They kept people from harassing you when you delivered throughout the city, and Jack insisted that you would get all of your papers for free.

“A roll is worth more than a penny,” he said when you protested. “It doesn’t matter that’s it’s stale. A trade is a trade, Y/N.”

 

 

It felt a little strange asking for a free paper, but you supposed you should take Jack up on it. 

It was all he had to offer, so you shouldn’t turn him down. He swore that any Newsie in Manhattan would set you up with one.

The boy you saw now was not one you remembered from the Lodge, but you went to him anyway. His smile made you feel a little better about asking.

“Jack said that I could get a free paper,” you said uncertainly.

His eyes widened with recognition. “You must be Y/N. Jack said something about you.”

“You don’t know me?”

“Nope. I don’t live at the Lodge. I live with the nuns at the cathedral,” he said. There was something almost proud about the statement.

You froze. He didn’t live at the Lodge. “Nevermind.”

He was already holding a paper out to you. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you said. “The other boys eat what I give them, but I’ve never given you food. You shouldn’t pay for it.”

He waved you off. “You feed the boys. You earned this.” He beamed at you when you hesitated, as though a whopping grin could convince you of anything. Apparently it could, since you accepted it. “Have a nice day, Y/N. Thanks for everything.”

“You too,” you said. “What’s your name?”

“JoJo,” he said. You shook his hand, not planning to ever see him again. If you ever took another paper from somebody, it would be somebody who actually owed you something.

 

 

You were jogging a delivery to a nearby restaurant, keeping half an eye out for a Newsie. You’d take a paper, but you didn’t know who sold where. You just needed a familiar face. Specs, maybe, or Albert.

“Y/N!” Your head whipped around, and you saw JoJo waving at you. You thought about pretending not to see him, but he looked so pleased that you couldn’t bear it.

“JoJo,” you said warmly. “Crowds treating you well?”

“I can’t complain,” he said easily. “”Baker keeping you fed?”

“More or less. He’s keeping your boys fed too, so it’s a good gig.” You readjusted the package of bread. You had a few minutes before you were expected, but you weren’t sure what you were stopping for. “Did you need something?”

He shrugged. “Do you want a paper?”

“I was gonna grab one later,” you said carefully.

“Great! Here, take one of mine.”

You bit your lip. “Are you sure? I could get one from somebody else.”

He scowled at you, but even that was sweet and welcoming. “No way, Y/N. Just take it. I want you to have one of my papers.”

You took it, holding it under the bread. The paper might end up with some greasy spots, but that was fine. “Thanks, kid. You're a gem.”

“I know. Have a good one,” he said.

You jogged off to the restaurant, warmed by his smile. He really was nice.

 

 

Your bag was stuffed with bread when you knocked on the Lodge door. Mush opened it, eyes lighting up at the sight of you. “Come on in!”

You drafted a couple of the younger kids to help you hand stuff out, and stuck around to watch them eat. Jack sidled up next to you. “You make them really happy when you do this, you know.”

You shrugged. “That’s why I do it. I wish I could do more.”

“There’s nothing more than this,” he said dismissively.

“Fresh bread would be more,” you said. “Warm food. Bringing it every day. There’s plenty more, and I wish I could do it. I wish I could bring enough for everybody to be full, instead of enough to help them sleep.”

“It’s more than I can do,” he pointed out. He no longer looked at you with suspicion. When you came around, he looked relieved. You sometimes felt like you were the parent he couldn’t be, giving physical support when he couldn’t. After a pause, he lowered his voice to agree. “I do wish there was more we could do. I wish I could give you more, too.”

“I get papes,” you said. Really, you would do it all for free. You would do it all for less than that, if it was possible. 

“Do you? Who do you go to?”

“JoJo,” you said. Jack grinned when he saw the small uptick of your lips just at the sound of his name.

“He’s a nice one,” he said.

“I know,” you said dryly. “I keep trying to go to somebody else, somebody I feed, but he makes sure I go to him.”

“Maybe he likes you,” Jack crooned. When you wrinkled your nose, unconvinced, he snorted. “Just let him. When he makes up his mind on something, it’s best to just let him. If he wants to give you a pape, no point fighting him.”

You shrugged. “Could you slip him something, every now and then? I don’t want him to lose money. I could give you the pennies.”

Jack agreed, so you decided to let that warmth settle in your chest. Letting him lay roots in you was safer now that you knew it wouldn’t leech him dry. 

 

 

JoJo became your regular Newsie. He would keep a paper set aside for you, sometimes seeking you out by the bakery if you didn’t run his way. One night when he did, you were already heading home.

You took the paper, grinning at him. “You know you didn’t have to bring this.”

“And what, leave you without knowing the news? How would you survive?”

“Not much changes in a day,” you said dismissively. You knew that it wasn’t true, but it was true enough for you. Not much would impact you, not right now. You were too young for most bad news to touch you.

“You and I might,” he countered. “What if I have a great story to tell? You might miss it.”

“Do you?” You looked at him expectantly while you did up the buttons on your coat.

“No,” he said. His shrug was shameless, as though he really meant the ‘what if’ of it. Anything could happen. “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t need a paper.”

“Well, thanks,” you said. You gestured down the road. “That’s my way. See you tomorrow?”

“What a coincidence. I’m heading that way too. Wanna walk together?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He started his way down the sidewalk, talking about the current drama amongst the nuns.

Walking with him was nice. He smiled a lot, and it felt real every time. To be smiled at by JoJo made you feel like he would rather be with you than anybody else. No wonder he did so well as a newsboy. Anybody would buy from that face.

You stopped at the walkway to your house, unexplainably disappointed to have arrived. “This is me. Thanks for walking me home.”

“Sure,” he said. “Thanks for letting me.” He surprised you by walking back the way you had come.

“JoJo, where were you going? I thought you were walking this way.”

He turned back to you, surprised. “I was. This was your way, so I walked it.”

“Why?”

He thought about it for a second, straightening his hat. “To be close to you.” He walked away, whistling all the while.

You had a dopey grin on your face when you went inside. He had walked you home. Actually walked you home, not just walked with you on the way. You had never been walked home by a boy before. If it felt like this every time, you couldn’t blame people for liking it so much.

 

 

You saved up pennies. You looked for spare coins on the ground. When the rare person tipped you for a delivery, you set the money aside. After weeks of saving, you were able to afford to buy a couple of fresh rolls. When JoJo came by to walk you home, as he had started to do every night, you were proud to present him with them.

He stared at them, confused. “What are those for?”

“Us! We each get one,” you said. You grinned, but he just looked baffled.

“What for?”

You faltered. You had imagined it being a grand gesture. JoJo was always doing little things for you. He was wonderful, and he had far more to give you than you to him. Just this once, you had something to return. Something that was much smaller than your feelings were, but would have to do. He didn’t look as happy as you had hoped.

“I wanted to give you something,” you said. “You do so much for me; the papers, and walking with me every day.”

“I don’t do it so you’ll owe me,” he said seriously. 

“And I’s not doing it to pay a debt,” you said, irritated. “I’s doing it because I want to show you something.”

“Show me what?”

“That I like you,” you snapped. The words were sharp, but you smiled when you said them. He smiled back, finally reaching out to take one.

“In that case, I guess it would be rude to reject it.”

“Very,” you agreed. “Being close to you isn’t always enough.”

“No, but if you like, we can do other stuff.” He held the door open for you, speaking through a full mouth.

You bit into your own roll to hide your grin. “Okay.”

“What, no questions about what we’s doing?”

“Nope. If you’s there, I want to be there,” you said. When he held his elbow out for you, you did not hesitate before taking it. It would be the first time he walked you home in a formal way, but it would not be the last.


	39. Tingling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, can I please request a fic where the reader is Jack's sister that Albert has a crush on? He has a dream about her and starts to tell Race ("A pretty girl?"), but she comes down the stairs, so Albert says a leg of lamb so she won't find out he likes her. Then later on, they both admit they like each other and fluff ensues. Sorry,if this is overly specific! I just love the way you write!”

The Newsies crawled out of their beds, grumbling all the while. It was good natured and predictable complaining; as much a part of the morning routine as washing faces and arguing over who owns which hat.

Albert hopped into the washroom, where Race was finishing getting dressed. “I was having the most beautiful dream,” he said wistfully. He had been dreaming about you again. It wasn’t a sexy dream, though that had happened a few times. It was just you. In his dreams, he could spend time with you without worrying about Jack getting on his case for mooning after somebody off limits.

Jack and Albert got along just fine. Jack liked all of the Newsies just fine, but liking somebody is not the same as wanting a guy to date his sister.

In the dream, the two of you had been at the Bowery. There had been food, dancing girls, and music. A few of the Newsies had danced on stage too, but that was beside the point. You had pulled him away from the show, off into a hall backstage. His hands had gone to your waist, your fingers had buried themselves into his hair, and your breath ghosted against his lips. He had been savoring the anticipation of the kiss, and just as he moved to close the last of the distance between you - Jack gave his wake up call. He cockblocked Albert’s dreams too, apparently.

“My lips are still tingling,” Albert continued. 

Race’s eyebrows skyrocketed, smirk settling into place. “A pretty girl?”

Albert wanted to say yes. He wanted to say everything about it, though Race would surely have mocked him relentlessly. All of the guys knew about Albert’s crush, but they didn’t know about the dreams, or about the way Albert tucked away pennies in case he ever had the chance to take you out. He started to say yes, but familiar footsteps pounded down the stairs.

“Hey fellas,” you said cheerily. Strictly speaking, you probably weren’t supposed to be in their bathroom. You technically didn’t pay to sleep in the Lodge, since Jack insisted on keeping you on the roof with him. “Sleep well?”

“Albert was just telling us about a dream he had,” Race said sweetly. “His lips are still tingling.”

You looked at Albert with renewed interest. “Really? Do tell.”

He grinned sheepishly. “A leg of lamb,” he croaked. “Best meal I ever had, and Jack had to go and spoil it.”

You laughed. “You know Jack. Instant buzzkill.”

Jack bounded down the steps. “Impossible. I’s the life of the party.”

“Exhibit A,” you intoned. The others filed in and out of the bathroom, thankfully ending the talk about Albert’s dream. He could have continued the lie, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep a blush off his face if Race kept waggling his eyebrows like that.

 

 

You had always been quick to sell your papers. It wasn’t that hard - everybody was a sucker for a girl in crisis. All of the boys had learned to play out a damsel in distress routine with you, so you were always out of papers by early afternoon, at the latest. 

You would celebrate the end of your workday by getting a cup of water at Jacobi’s. If you were feeling generous, you would go back out to help other kids sell their papes. You were waiting for your water, thinking about whether or not you would want to go back out, when Albert came in.

No, you would not be going back outside. You would be staying right there, at least until Albert left. If staying in a restaurant was all it took to spend time with him, you would gladly pay that price.

“Hey, Al,” you said casually. At least, it would have been casual, if your smile hadn’t taken over your face. 

He smiled back. “Hey, Y/N. Done already?”

You nodded. “You?”

“Nearly. I needed a break,” he said. Albert didn’t usually take breaks, and it wasn’t abnormally hot out. Maybe one of the other boys had been bothering him, or maybe a scab had tried taking over his spot. Whatever the reason, you were glad he had come.

The simple act of sitting at a table with him, with nobody around to dull the thrill of his presence, lit you up from the inside. You were flustered by it, so you drank your entire cup of water in one go once it arrived.

Albert watched, eyebrows raised. “Thirsty?”

You shrugged. “You could say that.” That’s not how you would put it, but you couldn’t very well say the truth. Albert seldom spent time alone with you, and you didn’t want to wreck this by telling him that you never stopped thinking about him.

He sipped slowly at his own glass. “Betting at the racetrack this weekend?”

The boys had been teaching you how to gamble, unbeknownst to Jack, of course. You weren’t great at it, but they were careful teachers. Race was cautious with your money, though his own was always at risk.

“Maybe,” you said thoughtfully. “I haven’t gone to lay a bet, but maybe I will later this week.”

“I’ll come with you,” he offered immediately.

“Really?”

He cleared his throat, making himself sound a little more carefree. “Sure. If I ain’t doing something else, I mean.” He brought the cup back to his lips.

“That would be great,” you said. You tracked the journey of the water to his face, and the way his lips curled around the rim. 

He saw your eyes, but misinterpreted it. “Still thirsty?” He offered the glass to you.

“Oh! No, no, that’s yours. Don’t worry about it.” You were feeling awfully warm.

He slid it over to you. “Really, you can have a drink.”

You took it, though you really weren’t thirsty. Not like that, anyway. “How generous,” you teased. “I’m so happy to have a boy who gives me a drink of his free water.”

“Anything for my girl,” he said lightly.

Suddenly, you couldn’t look at each other. Should you laugh it off? Make a joke? Pretend it never happened?

“Sorry,” he said. His eyes were locked on the water, still in your hand. “I shouldn’t make jokes like that. Jack’ll kill me.”

You waved his words off. “Jack has nothing to do with us. Don’t worry about it.”

“Us?”

You froze. You hadn’t meant it like that, however much you wished that you could. “Sure. We’s friends. How we do or don’t feel about each other isn’t Jack’s business, right?”

“It kinda is. He’s your brother.”

“And you’s my friend. If I want to be your girl, what’s it to him? It doesn’t change anything about him,” you argued. 

Albert looked at you, surprised. “You want to be my girl?”

“‘Course,” you said. You were speaking into the rim of the cup, letting the glass and the water swallow your words. “You’s pretty great, and all.”

He was smiling, cautiously optimistic. “So’re you.”

You slid the cup back to him. “So, what now?” You didn’t have much experience with boys. Did something change once you said that you liked each other, or were feelings just out in the open?

Albert looked as stumped as you felt. “I dunno. We could watch the races together this weekend. Without the boys, I mean.”

You grinned. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

He took a drink, and all you could think about was that your mouth had been there, touching where his lips were now. It made your lips tingle a little in response. “It’s a date.” After a pause, he looked at his hands. “I lied, earlier.”

“Oh?”

“About my dream. It wasn’t a leg of lamb.”

You smiled. “What was it?”

“A steak,” he said with a smirk.

You snorted. “Oh, how will I ever trust you again?”

“But really,” he said with a laugh. “I dreamt that you and I was going to kiss.”

You blinked at him, speechless. He dreamed about you. That foolish smile was back, almost aching in its intensity. “That’s really - that’s some dream.”

“Yeah. Not such a bad night,” he said lightly. He was blushing, but everything about it was happy. His freckles disappeared under the scarlet of his skin.

“We should still go place some bets,” you said. “I’m ready now, if you want.”

He blinked at you, surprised by the swift change of subject. “Oh, yeah, let’s go.”

Maybe along the way, you could pull him into some alleyway. You wanted to see how his mouth would feel after touching yours for real.


	40. Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Could I please request a fic where Crutchie and the reader practice kissing and they keep insisting it’s totally platonic and “for science” and stuff?”

“Doesn’t it freak you out, though?” Elmer was one of the many unlucky people who had gotten to Davey’s house too late to get a chair, so he was leaning against the bookshelf.

You shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “I dunno. Not usually.”

“God,” Race mused. “I think I had my first kiss when I was thirteen.”

“You don’t remember?” Albert tossed an M&M at him. “You’re such a man whore.”

Race grinned. “It’s the first one to make an impression. That doesn’t rule out the possibility that I got married in first grade or something.”

The room dissolved into stories about first kisses, thankfully drawing the attention away from you. After all, you can’t tell a story about something that hasn’t happened yet. You excused yourself to use the bathroom while Romeo told his story, though it seemed a little too embellished to be true.

You stayed in the bathroom longer than necessary, hoping that the topic would have changed by the time you went back downstairs. You understood why it was so strange to all of them - nobody really talked about the kids who got to the end of high school without kissing anybody. It just didn’t feel weird to you until people started telling you it was weird, and then it spiraled into something that felt bad and ugly and like maybe there was a reason nobody had killed you yet.

What if there really was a reason you were a senior, and nobody had kissed you yet?

You decided to buy yourself a few more seconds by going to the kitchen. To your surprise, Crutchie was there. He smiled at you before ducking behind the open fridge door.

He pulled out a can of soda, frowning at it. “Who buys off brand Mountain Dew?”

“It should be a crime.”

“It explains a lot about Davey,” he said. He grinned when you laughed. “Want one?”

You fumbled the one he tossed to you. Maybe you would wait a few minutes before opening it. The last thing you needed was to make a mess of the Jacobs’ house. You looked toward the basement stairs, a little apprehensive. “What are they talking about right now?”

“Still kissing,” he said. There was something almost sad about the way he said it. “It kinda sucks to be down there while they talk about something you haven’t done, right?”

You nodded, but paused. “Wait, is that why you’re up here?” 

“Yep.” He laughed when you gaped at him. “What, is that really a surprise?”

“I mean - yeah?” Crutchie was cute. Like, really cute. And he was funny and kind, so why would you not think that somebody had tried to jump his bones already?

“No kissing yet,” he said with a shrug. “You and I are in a club of our own.”

The club meeting was still going on twenty minutes later, though the two of you had moved over to the kitchen table. 

“It’s not that I’m that worried about it, usually,” you said. “It’ll just suck when I do start going out with somebody, and the person will think that I’m a crappy kisser just because I’m an inexperienced one.”

He nodded. “Yes! Maybe it would be better to just get it over with, so the anticipation stops building.”

Getting it over with. You had thought the same thing before, but it always sounded kind of sad. Like you were settling for something you didn’t want, just because it was better than nothing. 

“Shouldn’t it be better than that?” You propped your elbow on the table and rested your chin in one hand. “Not ‘true love’s kiss’ or anything, but better than getting it over with.”

“Ideally,” he agreed. “But maybe getting it over with is the best I can do.”

You stared at him, confused. There was no way he could actually think that. Surely, he knew what a catch he was. “That isn’t the best you can do. You deserve a lot better than that.”

“Like what?”

You paused. Like what? You didn’t want to accidentally lie to him in an attempt to be nice. You didn’t want to promise him anything that you couldn’t keep, and you couldn’t promise him something that had to do with somebody else.

“How about,” you said slowly, “a kiss between friends? That seems a little better.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you trying to volunteer?”

You gave a jerky shrug. “It doesn’t sound so bad. To have your first kiss be with somebody who loves you, even if it isn’t -”

“If it isn’t that kind of love,” he finished. “I get what you mean.”

You took a swig of the soda. It wasn’t as good as the real thing. “Right.”

There was a moment of silence. You meant what you said, but it was a strange thing to talk about. The two of you were friends. Not flirty friends, or friends that hid crushes on each other. You were just friends, so how could you broach the topic of kissing when you were sitting in a friend’s kitchen?

“Okay,” he finally said.

“Wait, really?”

“Sure. This isn’t, like, you trying to confess your undying love, right?” He looked mock-hurt when you laughed. “Hey, I’ve watched Hallmark movies with Romeo before. I know how this goes.”

You stuck out your hand for him to shake. “I swear, this is totally platonic. We’re just two pals, helping each other prepare for something not-friendly later with somebody else.”

He shook your hand. “Cool. So, how do we - how do we do this?” It was a great question. How do you kiss somebody that you don’t exactly want to kiss? There was no physical build up, no desire to be closer to him. It was a mental readiness, but not a physical one.

You shifted to the chair next to him. “I guess we just go for it.”

That was a bad idea. The two of you leaned in at the same time, and your nose smashed into his. He laughed, and some of the awkwardness receded.

“Okay,” he said. “Just - just sit there. Don’t move. I’m going in.”

You were laughing when he kissed you. Your teeth knocked again his a little, but you put a hand on his knee when he tried to pull away. You do better. It wasn’t a long kiss, but by the end, it was nice.

You grinned at him. “There we go.”

He smiled back at you, almost shyly. You supposed that made sense. If it had been weird to get ready to kiss him, it was weirder to stop. It was like something needed to be said, but there was nothing to say. “Right. We have officially had our first kiss. Meeting adjourned.”

 

 

Luckily for you, life was not a Hallmark movie. You did not leave Davey’s house with newfound feelings for Crutchie. Looking at him did not make your heart skip a beat, and the sound of his laughter did not make you weak in the knees. It did, however, make the two of you better friends.

It was a little strange - you only got closer because you decided to keep the kiss a secret. Logically speaking, the two of you should have hung out less. You should have acted as though nothing had changed. Instead, Crutchie sat by you at lunch. You would put stickers on his cane. You started a Snapchat streak, but kept it going by having actual conversations.

The others were a little surprised by it, but not unpleasantly so. None of them suspected the cause of it, and none of them cared about what may have prompted it. Everything was good.

“You and I,” Crutchie announced one afternoon, “are going to watch ‘A Christmas Prince.’”

You snorted, but realized he was serious. “Seriously? I thought you only watched Hallmark movies with Romeo.”

“I’ve heard it’s terrible,” he said reverently. “We have to watch this awful movie, Y/N.”

“Why would we want to watch a bad movie? And it’s not even near Christmas.”

“To make fun of it,” he said. 

You shut your locker, but didn’t bother jimmying the lock. It didn’t lock if you left it alone, and you liked not needing to remember the combo. “Afterwards, we can go find a car crash to watch. Or we could shoot birds with BB guns.”

He acted as though he was going to hit you with his cane, but pulled the blow so it was just a tap. “C’mon. It’ll be fun. I’ll make popcorn.”

He looked so hopeful, so carefree, that you agreed. If you didn’t go, you would probably just end up doing nothing online, at home in bed. Crutchie was better than that.

 

 

“That was the actual worst movie,” you marveled. “Was it supposed to be bad? Did they just stop caring partway through?”

Crutchie was grinned, bemused. “I have no idea. I’m kind of impressed.”

“No.”

“We should watch it again.”

“No,” you said again. The two of you were laying on opposite ends of the couch, legs in parallel. You dragged a finger along the arch of his foot, smiling when he jumped. “There are so many good rom-coms I would watch with you. Let’s not watch the bad one.”

“C’mon,” he crooned. “It was great.”

“What journalist would write that they need to find out more in their actual notes? It was so dumb,”

“Doesn’t it make you so happy to see them at the end, kissing in the snow? So romantic,” he said. He was beaming.

“No,” you said resolutely. “I don’t want to kiss outside in the middle of winter. It’s cold. Could they not just go inside?”

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s different when you like the person.”

“It would have to be a great kiss,” you said.

Crutchie thought for a minute. “Maybe it was. When we kissed, it wasn’t like that. We didn’t, you know, do much.”

“I guess that’s true.” It had just been a kiss. It wasn’t deep, and there wasn’t a lot of touching. “Our kiss wasn’t really the Grand Gesture kiss.”

Crutchie swallowed thickly. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but maybe that’s something we should have thought about then. We’ve had our first kisses now, but it doesn’t change the fact that we don’t really know how to kiss.”

You nodded. “Right. We’ve had an experience, but we aren’t experienced.”

“Maybe we should -”

“It might not be so bad to -”

You both stopped. You licked your lips, suddenly nervous. This was different than sharing your first kiss. You were talking about an entirely different kind of kiss. “If we practice,” you said slowly, “we might know what to do when the time comes with somebody else.”

He smiled, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Yeah. It’s practically a public service.”

You sat up and scooched a little closer to him. “Totally.”

“And it’s just a kiss between friends,” he said. He moved a little closer too, eyes locked on yours.

“Like before. It should be between people who love each other -”

“Even if that love is only platonic,” he finished. Your face was only a few inches from his. You closed the distance, one hand on his neck and the other on the back of the couch to keep yourself steady.

It wasn’t graceful. Neither of you knew what to do with your hands, or what do with your tongues. Still, he smelled like mint and tasted a little like popcorn. You liked the way his hands rested on the small of your back. You liked the way he made a little sound when you tugged on the hair at the nape of his neck. It got better once you figured out how his mouth moved, and it took conscious effort not to melt into him.

It wasn’t kiss-in-the-snow good, but it was definitely good.

 

 

The first kiss made your friendship with Crutchie better. The second kiss made it weirder. Weird wasn’t a bad thing, since what it really meant was that it led to a third, and then a fourth.

You weren’t dating him - you were practicing. They were very different things, and you knew that once he started going out with somebody, they would be very lucky.

That person just wouldn’t be you.

 

 

Your lab notebooks were laying on the floor, forgotten. Crutchie’s mouth was on your neck, and your brain was foggy with his scent. 

“We should probably - probably be studying,” you gasped. Your hands pulled him closer, nulling the comment.

“We are studying, he murmured. “It’s all for science.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Yeah?”

“Sure.” He pressed his lips against the corner of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “We’re conducting our own experiments.”

You hummed before dragging his mouth to yours. This was a science you could get behind.

 

 

“What’s going on with you and Crutchie?” Jack had materialized next to your locker, and you jumped.

“Jesus, Jack. Sneaky, much?”

He waved your words off. “Are you going out with him?”

“No,” you said immediately. You weren’t going out with him. You guys hung out alone, and sometimes you kissed while you hung out, but you definitely weren’t dating. You both said that it was totally platonic beforehand every time.

“I think he’s going to ask you out,” Jack said. He watched you closely, maybe to search for a smile or a grimace. You gave him nothing.

“What makes you say that?”

“The way he looks at you.” When you looked at him blankly, Jack smirked. “Have you really not noticed? He looks at you all the time. He’s cancelled plans with us a few times because he wanted to do something with you -”

“I didn’t know he was cancelling on you,” you interrupted, stricken.

“Well, he has been. He’s around you all the time, and when he looks at you, it’s like he wants to keep being around you all the time.”

You had no idea what to say to that. You couldn’t deny it, not when you weren’t sure what he was thinking when he saw you. Jack was his oldest friend, so maybe he would know better about Crutchie.

“I don’t think he’ll be asking me out,” you finally said.

Jack shrugged. “Will you say yes if he does?”

The warning bell rang, and you leapt on the distraction. “Oh! Gotta go, bye!” You darted around him and rushed to class, genuinely thrown. What if Crutchie did ask you out? You liked him a lot more than you had ever imagined you would, but everything was happening out of order. You had no idea what you wanted to do next.

 

 

You tried to think of a way to broach the topic with Crutchie. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to keep “practicing’” if one of you had caught feelings. You weren’t sure which of you might be having those feelings, but it didn’t matter. You wanted to talk about it.

Bringing it up was a lot harder than you expected.

You had plenty of time to talk about it. You and Crutchie hung out all the time. The trouble was, every time you were with him, you didn’t want to talk about it. You just wanted to eat, or talk, or let him breathe about science or practice into your ears and lips.

You should say something.

You were sitting with him in a love seat in his basement, enjoying the tight fit. He was watching an episode of Danny Phantom on the TV - his favorite TV show as a kid - while you watched him.

What should you say?

His lips were curled into a perpetual smile. Looking at him now, you wondered why you were so confused about Jack’s words. Of course you would say yes if he asked you out. It was Crutchie. You hadn’t liked him when you first kissed him, but you had changed since then. There was nothing platonic about practicing with him anymore.

You leaned over and kissed his neck. He looked over, surprised, but didn’t pull away when you kissed him on the mouth. He reached up to cup your cheek, and he didn’t say a thing.

Neither of you said anything about science. Practicing was the last thing on your mind. It was just kissing, plain and simple. You waited for him to talk, be it cracking a joke or assuring you that this wasn’t real love, but he was silent. He returned your ministrations, leaving you to wonder if this was something significant or the same as always.

 

 

Crutchie kissed you when he got out of swim practice.

You kissed him in the booth at your favorite diner.

You had no idea who initiated the kiss in Pulitzer’s room at Katherine’s birthday party, but it hardly mattered once it happened.

Neither of you mentioned practicing anymore. You kissed more than ever, but it also changed the time you spent not-kissing. He didn’t feel like just a friend. You flirted. You definitely had a crush on him.

God, you really had to talk to him.

“Hey, Crutch?” You looked at him over the checkers board.

He jumped one of your pieces. “Yeah?”

“Do you think kissing is even better when it’s with somebody you love? Romantically, I mean?”

He looked up, surprised. “It’s probably best then, yeah. Why?”

“I’ve just been thinking - we started all of this because we thought it would be best to try all of this with somebody who loved us, even if it wasn’t romantic. We’ve practiced plenty, so why haven’t we stopped?” It was still your turn, but you were having trouble focusing on the board. You were winning, but he would probably win if you stayed this distracted.

“Because we want to kiss somebody we love, I guess. I want to kiss somebody I love, I mean,” he said.

“Platonically?” You moved a piece at random.

Crutchie’s face was uncharacteristically solemn. “Not platonically.”

“Romantically?”

“Kissing-in-the-snow,” he confirmed. He watched you carefully, hands white knuckling the cane the rested on the ground beside him.

You grinned. “We should try that. Kissing in the snow, I mean. I think we’ve got what it takes to make it good.”

“That’s, like, six months from now,” he said. Hope lit his face.

“Yeah. Assuming we still love each other then, it could be pretty cool.”

“Pretty cold,” he corrected, beaming.

“Shut up,” you groaned. 

He was still smiling when he jumped another of your checker pieces. You tried to scowl at him, but your smile was just as big as his. The experiment had ended, and the results were in. You were happy that you had been practicing for somebody you loved. Finding Crutchie would have been a lot harder if you hadn’t.


	41. Read to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh wow I just discovered your account and I'm in love??your writing is so good??? How bout some davey who likes to read to the reader and it's all just very fluffy and cute??

“I have way too much homework,” you said miserably. “There’s no way I can do all of it.”

Davey bit into a carrot, smiling a little at the sharp crunching sound it made. “You actually can’t do it all, or you just don’t want to do it all?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not sure I can do it all.” You had plans with your parents for the evening, and it would eat up most of your homework time. You had to get a Powerpoint together, read a huge chunk of A Tale of Two Cities, and do some math problems. It was normally achievable, but you would be up way too late if you tried to do it all this time. 

“Look at you,” he teased. “Most kids wait until college to pull all nighters for homework. You’re an overachiever.”

You sighed. “For once, hearing that doesn’t make me feel so hot.”

“You’re super hot,” he said. 

You laughed, tossing a chip at him. “Careful. One of these days, I just might believe you.”

Davey’s mouth fell open, eyebrows shooting up. To his left, Jack glanced over from his conversation with Katherine and rolled his eyes. He didn’t say anything, but he looked at you as though you were the most ridiculous person in the universe.

Maybe you were, but Jack Kelly was not one to talk.

Davey sighed and ate another carrot. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

“Maybe,” you sighed. “I hope so.”

Hours later, when the New York skyline had gotten as dark as it ever could, you called Davey. “I’m not fine. Super not fine.”

“How far along are you?” Davey sounded tired. Had he already been asleep? You knew that he was an early to bed, early to rise kind of guy when he wasn’t stressed. He was nearly always stressed, but he had been smiling more lately. He had been okay. You felt bad about waking him, but it made you feel more screwed than ever.

“I haven’t even started,” you said miserably. You weren’t even home yet. You were in the back of a cab, debating whether death or a bad grade would be worse.

“Okay,” he said. He sounded a little more alert now. “What’s the plan?”

“Maybe I’ll just Sparknotes Dickens.”

Davey dropped his phone, and you smiled a little when you heard him fumbling for it. “Absolutely not. That’s not allowed.”

“Everybody else does it,” you pointed out.

“It’s illegal.”

“No.”

“You’ll go to jail,” he said seriously. “You can’t do it.”

“What am I supposed to do?” You really were open to other options, but you had never been good at identifying every course of action. That was what Davey was good at.

Maybe you relied on Davey a little too much. Whenever somebody told you so, you would say that he was your soulmate. Your perfect other half. As if you could ever be that lucky.

“Okay,” he said again. “Is your phone charged?”

“Yeah,” you said slowly. 

“Here’s the plan - I’ll read it to you. You can work on all of that other stuff while I read it over the phone.”

A bubble of warmth formed in your chest. “Really?”

“Really,” he said. “I should probably review the chapters anyway. We probably have a reading quiz tomorrow.”

You both knew that reviewing was not the same as rereading a large chunk of Dickens, who wrote too much to say something simple. “If you’re sure,” you said.”

“I’m sure,” he said. “Anything for you.”

You grinned, happy he couldn’t see your face. You were so, so relieved; crying of happiness wasn’t out of the picture. “Davey?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re perfect.”

You could hear his smile through the phone. “Careful. One of these days, I just might believe it.”

You settled into your seat, relaxing into the sound of his voice. “Good. You probably should.”

 

 

“I have no idea how you have so much time to read,” you sighed. “I never have enough time.”

“You say, sitting on the floor of my dorm room, complaining about how bored you are,” Davey said. He didn’t look up from his book, but you felt his attention shift to you. When he was really into a book, he would stroke his fingers along the pages so they flipped across his fingertips. He had stopped, so he was more interested in you at the moment.

“That’s different,” you said dismissively. “I’m here for my Davey fix.”

“You see me every day,” he pointed out.

You didn’t have to explain what you meant to him; he already knew. He knew that college wasn’t like high school, and that hanging out felt more precious now that you weren’t thrown together by common classes. He knew, but it was easier to pretend it wasn’t harder to stay friends. You were only freshmen, after all. If it was difficult now, how much harder would it be once you were taking harder classes?

“It isn’t enough, babe,” you said sweetly. “I’ll never get enough of your face.”

“I’m sure.” He paused for a second, then looked down at you. “Want me to read to you?”

“You’re already in the middle.”

“It’s a good book. I don’t mind restarting,” he said. He gave you a half smile, so you agreed. You leaned against the side of his bed, waiting for him to start. “One fish, two fish, red fish -” He gave a yelp when you elbowed him in the leg, but he was laughed. “Y/N!”

“And here I was, impressed that you still read,” you teased. “This is nothing.”

“Okay, okay,” he sighed. “I’ll actually read the book to you.”

You crawled up on the bed next to him. “Okay, ready.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive,” he began. You gave a happy sigh and leaned your head against his shoulder.

You liked it when Davey read. He didn’t do separate voices for each character, but he somehow made it clear who was speaking at all times. The way he spoke was perfect for storytelling. He read the first few chapters, voice warming up beautifully as he went on, before pausing to see if you wanted him to continue.

“We could stop,” he offered. “We could go to a movie or something, if you want.”

“One more chapter?”

“Okay.” He was smiling. You couldn’t tell if this was what he wanted you to say, but that was how it always was with Davey. It was like he didn’t care, as long as the two of you were together. He really did feel like your soulmate, sometimes.

“Davey?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” you said.

“I know,” he replied. 

He didn’t know, not really. You reached over and grabbed his hand, slipping your fingers between his. He had just started to read again, and his voice faltered. He looked at your hands for a second, but didn’t pull away. 

He readjusted the book in his hands so he could turn the pages without letting go of you. He kissed the side of your head before continuing, and you sometimes heard him smiling while he read. Even when the parts weren’t funny, he would smile and tighten his hold on your hand. You always squeezed back.

 

You laid your head in Davey’s lap, sighing happily when his scent and warmth enveloped you.

“Y/N,” he admonished gently. “I have to proofread my dissertation.” You might have moved away, had he not started running his hand through your hair. His warm fingers were in stark contrast with the cool of the metal on the ring finger of his left hand.

“That’s cool,” you said. Your eyelids were already heavy, and the sound of his voice set you at ease better than anything else. “Read it to me.”

“You want me to read to you about the change in American politics since the beginning of the Revolutionary War?”

“I want you to read to me,” you corrected. “I don’t care what.”

He settled back into the couch. Though your eyes were already closed, you could hear the smile in his voice. “Okay.” He began to read, lulling you to sleep as he did.


	42. The Biology of Attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey sweetheart! I was wondering if you could do anything with any newsies you like in a high school setting where he’s a swimmer and the reader remarked that he smell “vaguely of chlorine” and you go from there as you wish?”

“There’s no way his voice is that deep normally,” you whispered to Crutchie. 

His head tilted to the side while he listened to the narrator of the AP Biology video. “I dunno, I’m kind of rooting for him. I’m going to say that his voice is that deep.”

You snorted, and the one of the people on front of you turned around to see what you were doing. You flicked your eyebrows up at the girl, and she looked back at the screen.

“Somebody being cool does not automatically make their voice deep,” you scoffed. “Besides, you don’t know anything about him. How can you be rooting for him?”

“He’s doing his best. I can respect that.”

Deep Narrator Man was talking about the “biology of attraction.” According to a study in which women were told to smell the sweaty t-shirts of a bunch of men, women preferred the scents of T-shirts worn by men with different immune system genes than they had. It was supposed to give their offspring a better chance at immunity to a bunch of diseases, apparently.

He went on to talk about how women were immediately turned off by the scent of t-shirts worn by their family members, but your mind caught on the previous point.

“I can’t imagine being turned on by a sweaty shirt,” you muttered.

Crutchie twisted a little in his seat to look at you,intrigued. “Yeah? What smell do you think would turn you on?”

“I don’t know.” You couldn’t really imagine a smell being sexy. There were scents that you appreciated, but sexy scents? You weren’t sure. “Is there a smell that turns you on?”

He wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “I don’t think so.” Then, with a crooked grin, he held out his arm. “Want a whiff?”

“Gross.”

“C’mon, Y/N. Tell me if my scent fills you with burning desire.”

You covered your mouth to muffle your laughter. “It won’t.”

He propped his chin in his hand. “Scared?” The way he smiled at you, with his eyes dancing and his teeth glinting in the dark, made you grin back. There was nothing at risk when Crutchie dared you to do something, so there was nothing wrong with playing along either.

You grabbed his arm and buried your nose into it, inhaling deeply. He smelled nice, but there was no stirring in your stomach or leap of the heart. “Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’ with a cheeky smile. “The most I can say is that you smell vaguely of chlorine.”

He gave a hoot of laughter, ducking his head when the teacher shushed the two of you. “You take that back,” he hissed. “I smell completely of chlorine.”

He was right; it was the middle of swim season. He had two practices per day, and the smell of pool water followed him wherever he went.

“Whatever. Either way, I don’t feel anything.” The two of you went back to listening to the man with the deep voice, now talking about the scent of fertility. Neither of you saw the need to joke about that.

 

 

You had known what Crutchie smelled like long before AP Bio. After all, the two of you had been friends for ages. You knew he swam; you went to his swim meets. You sat next to him at movies sometimes, so you could sense the chemicals in the air while you watched.

It got a little weird after you smelled him for the sake of science.

Your head jerked up unexpectedly while you walked through the hallway with Katherine.

“What is it?” She looked at you, perplexed, but you were as confused as she was.

“I don’t know.” You looked around in the hallway. You were looking for something, but what? You didn’t see anybody important in the crowds of students. Your heart sank, and you frowned. “I thought I was going to see somebody.”

“Who?”

You kept looking around for a minute before you settled on the doors to the swimming pool. “Crutchie,” you said with surprise.

“He’s not here,” she said.

“No - not that.” You didn’t want to tell her; she would tease you relentlessly. The two of you had walked by the pool, and instead of automatically associating the chlorine smell with swimming, you thought of unruly blond hair and fingers calloused from using a cane for so long.

That was strange, and you weren’t sure you liked it.

 

 

Your teeth chattered audibly, and Race laughed. “Jesus, you’re like one of those wind up teeth toys.”

You frowned at him. “Thanks for the support.”

“Don’t blame me for your poor fashion choices,” he said with a shrug. The lot of you had decided to hang out for the evening, with no destination in mind. You wandered through the streets, sitting on benches and stepping into stores at random. Once it got dark, you started wishing you had worn a coat.

“Don’t make fun of me for looking good,” you retorted.

“Was it worth it?”

“Beauty is pain,” you said. Race burst out laughing, drawing the eyes of everybody around you. They saw Race, laughing at you while you hugged your arms around yourself and trembled.

“Oh, Y/N,” Katherine crooned. “Next time I’ll bring an extra jacket for you.”

You shrugged. “Too late now.”

Crutchie shrugged his zip-up hoodie off and held it out for you. “Here.”

“No,” you said. “You need it.”

He rolled his eyes, lips turning upward. “I’m offering it to you. I won’t put it back on, even if you say no.”

Katherine beamed and hopped from one foot to the other. You hadn’t old her why you were looking for Crutchie by the pool, so she had inserted her own explanation: that you wanted to walk that way because you thought he might be there. She thought that you were hardcore into him, no matter what you said to the contrary.

You took in begrudgingly. “Thanks.” Your annoyance faded immediately. It smelled like him, and it was warm and baggy. Perfect. “I’ll wash it and give it back.”

He had smiled and agreed, but you didn’t end up giving it back for ages. You wore it night after night, breathing Crutchie in in the only way you could. It was then, in the middle of the night, that you were able to admit to yourself that you really liked the way he smelled. 

You hadn’t lied to Crutchie in science; it wasn’t some erotic interest in chlorine. Smelling his jacket didn’t make you want to jump him immediately. Even so, wearing it made your heart flutter and a goofy smile spread across your face. It made you feel melty and happy, and your heart sank when you gave it back to him.

Maybe you did have a crush on him. That was inconvenient, but there were people far worse than Crutchie for you to want to be with.

 

 

“This is all your fault,” you griped to Katherine. She was combing through her dresser for something to use as a blindfold. “Why did your dad want such a big house for such a small family?”

“It’s your fault,” she corrected. “You were the one who wanted to watch The Conjuring.”

“We wouldn’t be playing hide and clap if you didn’t have a great house!”

“You wouldn’t be seeking if you hadn’t been so busy flirting with Crutchie that you ignored all of us figuring out who was it.”

You scowled. “I wasn’t flirting with Crutchie. We were just talking about a lab we have to turn in next week.” It had started out that way, at least. It had turned into joking around, but Katherine didn’t care.

“Sure. Next time, talk a little less.” You rolled your eyes, but she shoved a scrap of fabric over your eyes. “Can you see?”

“No.” 

“Awesome. Let’s do this thing.” She dragged you back into the living room, where you could feel some of the others hopping up and down with delight.

“Take it easy on Y/N,” Race teased. “It would be just awful if we, I don’t know, left instead of hiding.”

You thought about retorting, but decided to ignore him. “One, two, three -” You started to spin, and your friends bolted away.

You tried to think of a game plan as you twirled. Race and Jack weren’t great at hiding, but they were quick to move if they thought you were coming. Crutchie, on the other hand, could not move sneakily, but was much better at hiding.

“Thirty, thirty-one -”

You only got to ask them to clap three times. You weren’t sure you could bear to lose, so you would have to be clever. Go for somebody easy but quick, or difficult but stationary?

“Fifty!”

You moved too quickly, and stumbled. Luckily you had spun yourself near a wall, so you reached out and found something to lean on while you adjusted to the unshakable certainty that you were lost.

You stumbled through the halls, listening for the sound of breathing or creaking floorboards. Nothing, aside from your own muffled curses when you bumped things.

“One clap,” you finally called.

Scattered claps echoed through the house. There were a few farther down the hall, so you hurried that direction. You found a doorway and stepped in, grinning broadly. You inched across the room, hands outstretched as you moved.

A thump sounded across the room, and your head jerked. Your heart sank when you realized that you were hearing people run out of the room. There was no guarantee that there was anybody else in here. You could use your second clap on finding out, but that might be a waste of you found out that everybody was gone. Pay attention, and you might be able to figure it out on your own.

You heard your own footsteps. You heard breathing, but you couldn’t tell if it was your own or not. Yours was erratic with the terror that came with stumbling through the dark.

Pay. Attention.

You took a deep breath and froze. You knew that smell. The room smelled like dust and old paper, but there was an undercurrent of chlorine. Crutchie.

“Two claps,” you said. It wasn’t loud enough for everybody to hear, but you felt the nerves coating the clap in your room. You walked toward it slowly, running your hands along bookshelves and book spines.

Deep breaths. Listen.

The chlorine was stronger. It was like your gut was tugging you toward it. You half expected Crutchie to grab your outstretched hand, but you knew he wouldn’t. Finding him was on you.

You stumbled a little when you reached the end of the shelves, where your fingers found nothing but empty air. You took another step, expecting to feel wall, but hit fabric instead.

Fabric, covering a warm body. Your fingers climbed up, up, up, until you hit the skin of a neck. A face. Your fingers grazed the lips of a smile, and you smiled in return. Crutchie.

“Found you,” you said gently. With your free hand, you pulled off the blindfold. You hand was still on his face, but you didn’t rush to pull away. With a hint of regret, you let your hand settle on his shoulder. It wasn’t the same as touching skin, but it was better than nothing at all.

He sighed, but he still looked pleased. “”How’d you find me? I thought it was a decent spot.”

“I smelled you,” you said.

His eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Of course. I’d know you anywhere.”

He brought his hand to rest on yours. “It’s those pheromones,” he sighed. “You just can’t stay away.”

You shrugged. “Hey, it’s out of my control. That immune system of yours drives me crazy.”

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said lightly. A blush dusted his cheeks.

“You know,” you said, “you never told me what my smell is like for you.”

Crutchie froze, maybe to see if you would laugh it off, but you didn’t. You really wanted to know. Crutchie’s scent hadn’t felt important to you at the start, but now walking by the pool made your heart race even if you weren’t there. It wasn’t pheromones that made you feel that way, but a crush was important enough. If Crutchie was in the same boat, now was as good a time to find out as any.

When you gave him an expectant look, he leaned in until his nose brushed against the hair behind your ear. Your heart stopped when you heard him breathe you in.

“Well?”

“You smell nice,” he said in a strangled voice.

“But are you overwhelmed?” You tried to sound teasing, but the words were more of a croak than a joke. “Do I drive you crazy?”

“Well, um - yes, but it isn’t the smell?’ He leaned away, avoiding your eyes. “I am very overwhelmed, but I felt that way before I smelled you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I have no idea,” he sighed. “I’d like to think so.”

“Let me just -” You took a step back, ignoring the way his shoulders sagged. “Nope, I’m still having some feelings. As great as your immune system probably is, I don’t think that has anything to do with this.”

“No? Any other theories?” He was tapping his cane nervously, and you put a hand over his to steady it.

“I have a few.” With that, you closed the distance and kissed him. His hair was dry from the chlorine, but you liked having your hands in it. You liked having his hands on your hips and feeling his ribs press against yours. He smelled nice, but it was nothing compared to having all of your senses combining with his.

“Y/N, are you even looking - oh!” Jack’s last word came back as a smug purr. “Why, Kath, look what we have here.”

Katherine came in just as you pulled your face away from Crutchie’s. She gave a squeal of delight, but cut herself off. “Guys, this is great, but please don’t defile my Dad’s office.”

Your nose still brushed against Crutchie’s. He was smiling, a little sheepish, but his eyes were fireworks. “Okay,” you said. “What room can we defile?”

Crutchie laughed. He pulled away and leaned over to pick up his cane; he must have dropped it when he grabbed onto you. “Maybe we should save that for a room that isn’t in this house,” he said.

“Suggestions?”

“We’ll talk later,” he promised. He use his free hand to grab one of yours. “When we don’t have an audience.” He dragged you out into the hallway, to face the music and your friends. Crutchie’s smile erupted in full force, and yours rose to meet it. The two of you matched better than you would have initially imagined.


	43. You've Got Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Could you do a little fic where the reader and Davey are like neighbors who have never met and they keep getting each other’s really weird mail (like the most random stuff) and they can’t figure out where it’s coming from? Until they finally meet? I saw this on a prompt list somewhere and loved it but forgot about it till now! (Plus I love your writing, so I know you’ll do it amazingly)”

You jogged up the stairs to your apartment, grinning as you shuffled through your mail. There was something amazing about it - you lived in an apartment, and you had a key to your mailbox, and how grown up was that?

Maybe not grown up, if you were still excited about it, but still. You had only moved out of your parents’ place, so it was okay to be dazzled for a little while longer.

You frowned at one of the envelopes, pausing on the steps. This one wasn’t for you. It wasn’t for your roommate. The mailman must have made a mistake. This was for David Jacobs, and you had no idea who that was.

You should run it back down to his mailbox.

Your calves burned from running up so far already.

You should really run it back to his mailbox.

His apartment number was only a floor below yours; it was practically on your way.

You didn’t go back downstairs.

You slid the envelope under his door before going home, and promptly forgot all about it. 

 

 

It was difficult for Davey to balance his mail, his coffee, and the door to his apartment, but he always managed. His chin cradled the bottom of his cup, his chin held the top of it down, and he only thought he would lose it one time while he wobbled over to his kitchen table.

A letter from a National Honors Society, hoping that he would pay $95 for some stupid pin that would show that he had a high GPA. As if.

A catalogue for dorm living, since apparently the university refused to get normal beds that didn’t need custom sheets. 

A postcard from Jack, who appeared to be enjoying his year long internship in California.

He frowned at the envelope at the very bottom. That wasn’t his insurance company. He scanned the address and relaxed.

Though nobody was there to see him, he gave a satisfied nod. It was addressed to Y/N L/N. He didn’t know why he was always getting your mail, but it happened at least once a week. He always slid it into the correct mailbox, though he knew that it would be faster to run it up a floor and slide it into your apartment. He was always a little worried that you would open the door, or arrive just as he slid it in, and he would have a face to go with the name.

He liked the haziness of it all. He liked basing what he knew about his mystery neighbor on the mail he saw. He knew that the two of you went to the same college. He knew that you bought stuff online sometimes. Sometimes, on days when Davey was lonely or bored, he would run his fingers along the edges of the packages that were given to him by mistake so he could guess what was inside.

Books, sometimes.

Clothes.

Sometimes they came in boxes, and he was left to imagine what you could be getting. It was a pointless game, since he had no reason to know a thing about you, but it passed the time.

Maybe you collected things, like comic books or first edition books. Maybe you had a friend in another country, and the boxes were full of gifts and foods that the friend wanted to share. Maybe his neighbor was a smuggler, and the packages held illegal cargo.

He pushed the envelope through the mail slot and went back upstairs, hedging bets with himself about when he would get your mail again.

 

 

You had made a mistake, and you felt absolutely sick about it. 

You got David’s mail again, not that it was anything out of the usual. This time, however, you didn’t notice that it wasn’t yours. You had been waiting for one of your textbooks to come in the mail, after all, so when you saw that the package had come from the right company, you didn’t check to see if it came to the right apartment.

You held the history book tightly in your hands, worrying your lip. What should you do now? The right thing to do, obviously, was to go to his place and return it in person. Apologize profusely, and hope that he didn’t hate you for the rest of always.

You weren’t sure that you wanted to do the right thing. It wasn’t that you weren’t planning to give it back, of course. A textbook like this surely cost over a hundred dollars. If you kept it just to save face, he would probably be wrecked. Buying textbooks was one of the hardest blows your bank account ever took. No, you would return it. You just didn’t think that you could face him in the process.

If he yelled at you, you would probably cry, and then you would have to move to Montana or Idaho or someplace equally empty. Maybe you would join an Amish community and change your name to something different and Biblical and change your entire life to escape that one time a guy yelled at you for opening his mail.

No, you would put it back in the box. You taped the box closed and frowned down at it. It had clearly been opened already; the cardboard was frayed and weak. You grabbed a piece of paper and scrawled a note to tape onto the box.

Mr. Jacobs,  
I accidentally opened your box. I was expecting a similar one, and I didn’t check to see that it was mine. I am the worst. Sorry.  
Y/N L/N

You hung the package in a plastic bag from his doorknob and left, praying that he would never say a thing about it. If he came and knocked on your door, you wouldn’t even know it was him until he railed you out.

 

 

Davey kept the note. It wasn’t weird or anything; it rested on his table with other loose pieces of paper. It wasn’t weird, he told himself, because it lived among receipts and forgotten letters and quick notes he had left for himself about paying bills and calling his mother. 

He looked at it sometimes when he got your mail again, if only to compare the handwriting to the mail you should have gotten. By the time it occurred to him that maybe it didn’t match, that maybe you weren’t how he had learned to imagine you, it was already you. 

Y/N,  
Don’t worry about the book. It doesn’t seem any the worse for wear.  
Davey

 

 

You grinned at the note. His name was Davey. His name was Davey, he wasn’t mad, and he wrote you back. If life was a romantic comedy, this would be the point where the two of you started your descent into falling in love.

Then again, if this was a romantic comedy, it was likely that the two of you had already met. You could not think of any men you knew that you would hope was on the other side of the pen, let alone a man named Davey. Maybe it was better to leave it here, with an apology and an acceptance.

Then again, you thought as you gazed at a postcard that was not meant for you, it was only worth cutting your losses when you liked what you had and had something to lose. You wanted more and had nothing to lose, so why stop?

 

 

Davey gaped at a sticky note on Jack’s postcard. He shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was - you had written him a note with the textbook, after all, why not with a postcard? - but he had trouble processing the sight of your writing next to Jack’s.

 

Tell your friend to send wine.

 

You hadn’t signed your name, but he knew it was yours. He put the note next to the first one, telling himself that it wasn’t weird. The next time he got mail that should have been yours, he scrawled a reply.

Y/N,  
Awfully bold of you to assume he wants to buy you a drink.  
Davey

 

 

Davey,  
Awfully bold of you to assume that I wasn’t expecting you to buy the wine.  
Y/N

 

 

Y/N,  
You opened my package. If either of us should be paying, it ought to be you.  
Davey

 

 

Davey,  
I would never buy myself a drink if I can get a boy to buy me one.  
Y/N

 

 

You were almost more excited to find mail that wasn’t yours than mail that was, these days. You loved getting responses from Davey, of course, but you spent a lot of time imagining what you would write to him. Jokes about mail he got, about something witty he said earlier on, about other people in the building that he was sure to have seen.

The only hard part - when had it gotten easy to write to him? A long time ago, maybe - was stopping yourself from taking the flirtation too far. Flirting was all well and good, but at what point does it become too serious? How friendly can you get before you’re expected to meet him for real?

He made you smile, and you liked that.

What if he wasn’t like the notes? It was easy to be clever when you didn’t have to respond immediately. He had hours, days, to figure out what he wanted to say to you. Maybe he wasn’t the same to talk to.

You hardly noticed when boys flirted with you now, since the only banter you were waiting for was with a boy who may not have the chance to respond for days, weeks.

What if he was old? You always pictured him at about your age, since he went to the same school, but what if he was a middle aged man that decided to go back to college? What if he was mean, or gross, or leered at you until you wanted to take six showers and move out of the building?

What if he was perfect, and meeting him was the greatest thing you could possibly do?

 

 

Y/N,  
You’ve been buying a lot of books lately.  
Davey

 

 

Davey,  
If you’re judging me for it, I think you and I are over.  
Y/N

 

 

Y/N,  
As if. You should lend me one.  
Davey

 

 

It wasn’t weird for Davey to keep a pile of your notes, but it was normal for a different reason now. He kept an envelope of them stuck to his fridge now, where he could comb through them to reference a conversation long since lost. It was normal because, oddly enough, the two of you were friends.

He didn’t know the color of your hair, but he knew that you always ordered clothes a little too big because you were scared they would shrink in the wash.

You didn’t know how tall he was, but he sometimes let Les write you notes under his own.

He didn’t know what your smile was like, but he knew about the classes that stressed you out while you studied for midterms.

He would never be able to pick you out in a crowd, but he would know your mind above all others.

Sometimes it didn’t feel like enough, but your opinion of him was one of the only things he didn’t know.

 

 

Y/N,  
Are you going to the tree lighting ceremony?  
Davey

 

 

You froze when you read his note. For all you knew, he was just wondering. It could have been that he wanted to know about your Christmas traditions. Maybe it was small talk.

Maybe he wanted to meet you there.

You definitely wanted to meet him there.

 

 

Davey,  
Of course. You?  
Y/N

 

 

Davey felt absolutely sick while he suggested that the two of you meet up. He could barely eat while he waited for you to write back. Why didn’t the two of you ever write notes without waiting for a mail mix up? He had liked the anticipation up until now, and he liked the tradition of it, but now he wasn’t sure his heart would take it. If you said no, he wasn’t sure he could bear the idea of writing back and forth with no hope of conclusion.

 

 

Davey,  
You should buy me a drink.  
Y/N

 

 

Y/N,  
Awfully bold of you to assume that I wasn’t expecting you to take me out.  
Davey

 

 

Davey,  
Why would I buy my own drink when I can get you to buy one for me?  
Y/N

 

 

You couldn’t tell if you were shaking because of the cold, or because of the nerves. It hardly mattered. The important thing was that there was a crowd of people, and Davey was probably in there somewhere. There was a crowd of people, and you didn’t know who he was.

He would be wearing a black hat and a blue scarf.

If he was an old man, how would you play it off? Maybe you could pretend it had all been friendly. He would have to be pretty senile, but maybe you could pull it off.

Black hat, blue scarf.

You liked to think that it wouldn’t matter how attractive he was, but you couldn’t guarantee it. It was easy to say that looks didn’t matter when you imagined him being perfect.

Black hat, blue -

You locked eyes with a boy in a black hat and blue scarf. You felt his gaze whip over you, taking in the clothes you had promised to wear in return. His cheeks had been pink from the cold, but they paled a bit now. He walked toward you, and your stomach flipped.

“Y/N?” He had a nice voice. “I’m Davey.”

You smiled shakily. “Nice to meet you.”

His smile was nervous, and you knew that he was thinking the same thing as you - how do you talk to somebody who you both know and don’t know? Where do you even start?

You dug through your bag. “I brought you something.”

“Oh - you didn’t have to -”

You held a book out to him, and he gazed at it with surprise. “Stop judging me about buying a bunch of books. I can share.”

“I guess it’s a trade, then,” he said. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket.

It was a letter from school, addressed to you. You gaped at it. “Our mailman in the worst.”

“He messes everything up,” Davey agreed. “It worked out pretty well for us, though.”

“As if,” you snorted. You hurried to finish before the surprise on Davey’s face could shift to disappointment. “If it had worked out well, Jack would have sent me wine.”

He laughed, and it was as nice as his voice. A nice laugh, a nice voice, and a nice face. The mailman had done you a favor. “You’re so needy.”

“And you’re so bad at providing,” you sighed. Even when he wasn’t smiling, his eyes were bright. His eyebrows were raised in an expression of perpetual surprise; he was as pleased and bewildered to be meeting you as you were with him. You could hear the letters in the way he talked. “Look at me, stuck in the cold, with no drinks in sight.”

Davey grabbed your hand and led you toward a restaurant, not bothering to let go when you got out of the worst of the crowd. “Okay, so I have to tell you about what Les did last week.”

The next time the mail was mixed up, you took it to Davey directly. A few years later, the mailman stopped messing it up. After all, it’s difficult to give two people the wrong mail when they have the same address.


	44. Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can you write something where you used to be a regular customer for one or two of the newsies (pre strike coz you’d stop and buy a paper for your boss on the way to work) and then a bit of a mother hen to them after you’d befriended them. You had to stay late to finish typing something up for your boss one night and have a run in with the Delancey bros and Jack saves you and is surprised when you know who he is. Your stories are so wonderful and you’re so talented :)”

You tried to inconspicuously adjust your skirt, but there was no point. Whatever magic won you your position as a secretary must not apply to ill-fitting clothes. 

Whatever. Magic that got you a job was more than enough.

Your boss, a banker, told you that he would want you to buy him a paper every morning. He would pay you back for it; even pennies were too precious for you to waste. Your parents had to blow their savings on getting you clothes to work in. They didn’t fit well, but they would do until you made enough to replace them. If you were careful, you might be able to sell these clothes for some decent money.

You scanned the morning rush for the right newsboy. You weren’t sure what ‘right’ meant, but you thought you would know which one to buy from when you saw him. 

There was a short boy with fun socks, but you weren’t sure you wanted to deal with the way he tipped his hat at every girl he saw.

There was the boy with slingshot resting in his trousers, who had a thin smile and a sharp gaze for people who didn’t want to buy from him.

There was the boy, far off on the other side of the block, with the strong jawline and a smile that spoke of years of experience and knowledge of the people on the street.

That was him, you decided. The boy whose confidence in his work made him your opposite. You ran your thumb over the money as you walked over, wondering if you would have to talk to him to buy the paper.

What if he tried to talk to you?

Say something back, idiot.

What if he didn’t want to talk to you at all?

The idea, so basic in its regularity, made you more nervous than the thought of not saying anything to the boy at all. That was confusing; why would you want to talk to somebody you didn’t know? You were so bewildered that you didn’t notice the approach of the boy with the slingshot.

“Bought a pape yet?”

You flinched back, shocked, and he smirked. “No,” you said. Without thinking, you held out the money. “What’s the headline?”

“Murder-suicide in the Senator’s mansion,” he said, pocketing the change.

You frowned at the paper, raising an eyebrow at the boy. You had been so anxious about talking to the other boy; now that your plans were foiled, there didn’t seem to be room for any anxiety at all. “That’s not the headline.”

His smirk morphed into a full grin. “Whatcha gonna do about it?” He rocket back on his heels, pleased by the smile you flashed back at him.

“Come back tomorrow, I suppose,” you said. “Think you’ll be a little more honest then?”

“This ain’t a business for honesty,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

“Finch,” he said. “Who’re you?”

“Y/N,” you said. You dipped into a mock curtsy, and he laughed. You waved, hurrying to get to the bank. Your eyes flicked back to the confident boy, working his magic on the crowds. Finch’s sly smile wasn’t the same as that confidence, but it was enough to take the edge off your nerves.

 

 

“The headline,” Finch said grandly, “has something to do with a bank robbery, a train, and a married couple. You do the math.”

You smiled, raising an eyebrow at the paper. “Gee, that doesn’t seem too thrilling. Maybe I should just save my money.”

You heard Romeo give a bark of laughter behind you. “The World was pretty boring when Finch’s papes printed. Mine’s better.”

“You’s selling the World too, stupid,” Finch snapped. You could still hear the smile in his voice when you turned to Romeo.

“Mine came out a few minutes later,” Romeo said. “It has a better headline.” He made a show of snapping his paper open to read it. “New York bride leaves man at alter to run away with French prince.”

“There we go,” you said. “See, Finch? I want to meet a French prince, so I want to read that paper.” You flipped a penny to Romeo, who caught it deftly.

“I know what the ladies like,” he said smugly.

Finch rolled his eyes, but elbowed Romeo in the side. “Let the lady get to work. If she doesn’t hurry, she won’t be able to moon over Jack for a few minutes.”

You gave a huff of irritation, but didn’t bother protesting over their laughter. He was right; you did like to watch Jack sell. Finch had watched you watch Jack for weeks now, and Romeo had noticed right away too. 

Finch was your go-to newsie. When Romeo heard you teasing Finch about a lack of originality, the two started competing for your sale. It was one of the highlights of your day. If the two of you knew that you had a thing for one of their friends, there was nothing to be done. All is fair in love and war, and all that. There was a certain amount of both involved, so you were pretty well screwed.

 

 

What did your boss think - that you had no life at all, so of course you could stay hours after closing to type up some reports he put off?

If so, he was right, but you were still sending him some very hateful vibes from the dimly lit desk.

It was dark by the time you were able to walk home. You paused to try and adjust the way your waist sat at your waist - to try to get it to sit on your waist in general, really - and flinched when you heard footsteps. You knew it was stupid; people were bound to walk around at night when you lived in the city. If you were staying late at work, why wouldn’t somebody else?

The footsteps were getting closer, and there was more than one set.

You told yourself how stupid you were being. You were clearly not mature enough to be walking by yourself at night if you were going to spend the entire time jumping at shadows and assuming every man was some kind of sex pervert. Your dad would be so disappointed if he heard how cowardly you were bring.

“Where you headed, doll?” One of the owners of the footsteps was clearly talking to you.

You tried to keep your head high, your shoulders straight, as though you hadn’t heard and weren’t afraid. 

“It’s getting pretty late,” the companion agreed. “You shouldn’t be out so late by yourself. Who knows what’ll happen.”

“I’m fine,” you said stiffly. You sped up a little. 

“Maybe right now,” the first agreed. “But who knows what could happen? Maybe we should walk you home.”

“No, thank you,” you said. You’re voice cracked a little; you wouldn’t be able to walk much faster without breaking into a run.

“We insist,” said the second. A hand closed around your wrist, and you made up your mind to whip around and hit whoever held it -

“Oscar, Morris, the lady said she was fine,” said somebody new.

Everything froze. The two men, you supposed they must be Oscar and Morris, stood as though they were statues. You yanked your hand out of the one’s grasp. The newcomer was leaning casually against the building in front of you, eyes bright and lips curled in a humorless smile. It was your confident boy, tension rolling off him in waves.

“Jack!” Your voice was light and cheery; if he was surprised that you knew his name, he didn’t show it. “There you are - I thought you were picking me up from work.”

“Sorry, I got held up.” He flashed a dangerous grin at your pursuers. “Thanks for getting my girl this far. I can take it from here.”

He offered you an arm. You took it eagerly and walked away from Oscar and Morris, careful not to turn around to see whether they were leaving.

“Thank you,” you sighed. Your voice was still on the edge of broken. “I was sure I was toast.”

He shot you a sidelong glance. “How’d you know my name?”

“I know some of your boys,” you said. 

“I know,” he said. “That doesn’t mean you’d know my name.”

“They talk about you all the time,” you lied. Everything you knew about Jack had been weaseled out of Finch and Romeo, always at the risk of looking foolish and lovestricken. You were not in love with Jack Kelly. You were just in like with his face and his voice and everything else you could observe from ten feet away.

He huffed out a smile. “I’m sure. You’s at a bit of an advantage, miss.”

“Oh?”

“You know me, but I don’t know you.”

“Y/N,” you said. “Y/N Y/L/N. I’d say ‘at your service,’ but I’m not sure that my service would be of much use,” you added dryly.

He laughed, a surprisingly light sound. “Maybe another time. I try not to take advantage of damsels in distress.”

“Do you have many of those?”

“Not many that look like you,” he said with a wink. 

You laughed. “Ah, out of the pot and into the fire.” When he looked perplexed, you flushed. “I just mean, I get away from one dangerous flirtation, only to promptly fall into another. It was a joke -”

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “You’s right. Pretend I didn’t say nothing.”

You deflated a little. You wished that you had been the one to keep your mouth shut; it had been fun while it lasted.

Your eyebrows shot up when he continued. “It’d be better to talk to you like that when it has nothing to do with Delanceys. You can take it seriously, then.”

“You want me to take it seriously?”

“Why not?” He smiled at the shock on your face. “You got the stamp of approval from the guys. That’s more than enough for me. Next time I call you gorgeous, I wanna knock your socks off.”

“How romantic,” you said lightly. You realized, with no small amount of regret, that you were on your street. “This is me.”

At the sidewalk in front of your house, you pecked Jack on the cheek. All business, you promised yourself. Professional actions only.

His eyes were wide and surprised, but pleased. “What’s that for?”

“Being you,” you said. “Helping me before.”

“Anybody would have done that,” he scoffed.

“I wouldn’t have wanted just anybody,” you said. “G’night.” You dashed to the front door, glancing back at him while you closed it behind you. Jack was smiling, soft and bright, while he walked back the way he came.

 

 

“Breaking news,” Romeo crooned the next morning. “Jack Kelly walks Y/N home from work.”

“I already knew that,” you scoffed. You looked at Finch, who was grinning as broadly as Romeo. “Got anything better?”

“Extra, extra, Jack Kelly is going to walk Y/N home from work again tonight,” he said smugly. 

Your grin broadened. “That’s some good news.” You flipped him a penny, snatching a paper. “Stellar reporting.”

They shot pointed looks over your shoulder. When you turned, Jack was grinning across the street at you. He gave you a little salute before turning back to sell more papers. You bit your lip, smothering the delight that Romeo and Finch were searching for.

“I have to go to work,” you said airily. “Get your own lives so you aren’t so invested in mine.”

“Stop rubbing your life in our faces,” Finch snorted.

“You love it,” you said. You walked back to the bank, already hankering for the end of the day. It was looking like there was something good about having to stay late at work, after all. You’d have to thank your boss.


	45. Rich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “could i request a reader joining the newsies (canon era) after running away from their abusive parents? ❤️”

You thought that maybe you liked the city in the early morning, when the hustle was that of workers and travelers. You were never up this early when you lived at home, but it was hard to sleep in an alley once the sun was up.

You supposed that you must be hungry, but it had progressed to the point that you ached all over in lieu of hearing your stomach growl. You didn’t have any money, but maybe you would try begging today. You looked down at your clothes and bit your lip, worrying that nobody would give you anything.

You looked like a rich kid. Rich and covered in dirt, but rich nonetheless.

You were not a rich kid. You had been, a few days earlier, but you had been rich in far too many things. Rich in dollars, which seemed better with each day that passed without any. Rich in clothing. Rich in bruises that bloomed strategically under the cover of your clothes. Rich in food. Rich in fear, at least when your parents were in the room. 

Rich in pride.

Nobody at home had raised a finger to help you, though you were sure that the people around you knew. You would have thought that somebody would have said something, or done something; weren’t kids supposed to be some sort of treasure? Something to be preserved? Perhaps that was only the truth amongst people who had nothing to fear.

Was anybody looking for you? You had no idea. You had run away in the dead of night, impoverished in everything except pride.

That had been a week ago, and your pride was all you had.

There was a crowd of people in the square ahead of you. You had nothing to do all day, so there was nothing to keep you from going to see what the hubbub was about.

To your surprise, it was a bunch of kids. Boys, mostly, but there were a couple of girls in the mix. They stood in line to buy newspapers. Newsies, you realized with satisfaction. Getting ready to hit the streets.

“What’re you looking at?” One of the boys had only spared you half a glance before turning back to his open newspaper.

“You, I suppose.”

He gave you a true once over now, surprised smile fading at once. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

You set your jaw. You knew, logically, that your dignity didn’t matter here. You were a homeless kid amongst other homeless, abused, and poor kids. If anybody in the city was going to have any sympathy for you, it would be them. Even so, the walls went up.

“I understand the desire to compare me to Jesus, but usually people just call me Y/N,” you said dryly.

He laughed. “Jack Kelly. That didn’t answer my question, kid.”

“I didn’t want to answer your question.”

A couple more kids jogged up, one far older than the other. The older boy grinned at Jack. “Doctor said it only be a few more weeks,” he said eagerly. “In a few weeks, my dad’s leg should be healed up enough to go back to work.”

Jack beamed at him. “And you can leave the Newsie life behind.”

The younger one scoffed, showing off a gap where a baby tooth used to be. “You won’t be getting rid of us that easy.”

“Rats,” Jack sighed. He snatched the kid’s hat and smacked him over the head with it. “I was only pretending to like you ‘cause I thought I wouldn’t be seeing you anymore.”

The older boy gave Jack a dismayed smile. “That was why I was nice to Les, too.”

Les snatched his hat back and hit each boy with it. “Fine, Davey. I’ll just tell Mom that you want to stay out here with the boys.”

Davey laughed, raising his hands in surrender.

“You’s still gonna visit, right?” The exchange had drawn the attention of the rest of the kids. The boy nearest to you, a short boy with a worn out crutch, looked at Davey and Les with wide, young eyes.

“Of course we are,” Davey said warmly. “We just might be on the other side of the sale, now.”

“You’s gonna buy from me,” a boy with a cigar said. His lips curved around the cigar, cheeky and dashing. Under the arrogance, you could see a hint of dread. Dread of change, or loss, or something else that kids shouldn’t have to be worrying about. “I was always your favorite, right Dave?”

Other boys argued to the contrary, each with a reason why Davey and Les would buy from him instead. The longer they talked, argued, teased, the wider your smile grew. These kids had something. You weren’t sure what, exactly, but you wanted whatever it was. 

Les looked at you, perplexed. “Who’re you?”

“Y/N.” You held out a hand for him to shake. He spat on his, and you hesitantly did the same to yours. It was disgusting, but you weren’t sure there was a spot on your hand that wasn’t already soiled by dirt or dust. What was one more thing?

“Is this your first day?” Les grinned at you. “Are you excited? ‘Cause that’ll rub right off.”

The cigar boy rolled his eyes, no doubt at some joke that you hadn’t been around long to understand. “Yeah, we ain’t seen you around here before.”

You frowned. “Ah, no, I don’t have any -”

Jack held out a hand for you to shake, cutting you off. “Y/N and I need to have a little talk. About the ins and outs of selling, you know.” He dragged you away by your hand, still trapped in a shake.

“Jack,” you said in a low voice. “I’m not selling. I don’t have any money.”

He turned his newspaper so you could look at a page. Your face was plastered across a Missing Person advertisement. “Care to explain?”

“No,” you said firmly.

The line of his mouth was hard, but there was something soft in his eyes. “Whatever’s going on at home, you can get past it. I’d get past just about anything if it meant I had a mom and pop.”

“Not for mine, you wouldn’t.” You looked him in the eye, waiting for him to look away. He didn’t. He looked you over, no doubt searching for some kind of hint at what you were running away from.

“Aight, kid,” he finally said. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a couple of coins. “Buy yourself twenty papes. Use today’s cash to buy a place to sleep, some food, and more papes tomorrow. Same the next day, and the day after that. It ain’t much, but it’s all you need for now.”

“I don’t want your money,” you said.

“That’s bull,” he snorted. “You look like you got run over. You need it.”

“I can’t pay you back.”

He looked as though he wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to, but he looked you over again when he saw the set of your jaw. “Gimme a cut of the cash,” he sighed. “Two cents off the dime.”

“Fifty-fifty,” you said.

“Seventy-thirty.”

His eyes were filled with pity. You knew that he was taking a bad deal, but what were you supposed to say? You didn’t want to lie to him, but the truth would only prove his point. He could see that you were homeless, penniless, defenseless.

“Fine,” you sighed. You spat on your hand again, and he laughed.

“It’s a deal.”

He walked away, moving among his boys without an ounce of self-consciousness. He slugged some in the arm, ruffled the hair of others. They would hit him back, shout insults at his back, and grin.

Love, you decided when you followed him. These kids were poor in just about everything, but they were rich in love. You had never been rich in that before, but when Les smiled at you, you thought maybe you could be.


	46. Treat Yo'self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crutchie having a cheesy little self-care day with the reader, and then Feelings are revealed?”

“Treat,” you said with a grin.

“Y/N,” Crutchie said patiently. “No.”

“Yo’.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Self,” you finished triumphantly.

Crutchie sighed, but he had a tolerant grin on his face. “No.”

“C’mon,” you urged. You shook the page of stickers in his face. “We could pimp your ride.”

“My cane is not a ride.”

“It gets you places, doesn’t it?” You smiled at the stickers, dozens of glittery dinosaurs. “They’re beautiful.”

He snorted. “I already treated myself.”

“To a set of earbuds,” you scoffed. You and Crutchie had gone to the mall for a full-on self care day. You were in the spirit of things, but Crutchie was a little more hesitant. “You were just replacing your old set. That’s not a treat.”

Crutchie shook his head. “I don’t need the stickers.”

“Fine,” you said. He looked at you, surprised at the swift end to the fight. When he saw the set of your jaw, the relief melted off his face. “I think I need them, though. How hard could it possibly be to find a good place for them?”

You gave his cane a longing stare, and he shifted it behind a shelf. You laughed and moved on.

 

 

“This is so us,” you beamed. You held up a set of t-shirts, proudly pointing at the words ‘Bitch 1’ and ‘Bitch 2’. 

He raised one eyebrow. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but I think your eyesight has gotten worse. See, you thought you went out with Race, but you’re actually out with Crutchie.”

Your jaw dropped in mock horror. “Oh no. No wonder this sucks so much.”

He laughed, knocking you with his cane. “This is the happiest you’ve ever been.”

“As if you’ve ever been happier.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “We could be sitting in an empty parking lot, and I’d be happy that it was the two of us.” He wandered away from the display of t-shirts, already forgetting about what he had said.

You followed him toward a bookstore, letting your smile linger and allowing your eyes to rove over him in a way that you never could when he was looking.

In a way, he was right: had you been looking for a true spending spree, you would have invited Race. You knew what you were getting into when you invited Crutchie, and you didn’t regret it at all.

Every friend filled a certain hole in your life.

Race made you laugh.

Jack, self destructive as he could be, saved you from your own self destructive tendencies.

Katherine fueled your passion by being passionate herself.

Crutchie filled you with butterflies and smiles and plans for the future.

So, yeah, Crutchie may not have been the best choice for treating yo’self. You had known it when you invited him, and you knew it now. Whatever. He was a treat, and you got to be yourself around him. What more could you want?

 

 

You watched one of the stylists file Crutchie’s toenails. “What, no threats about what happens if I tell people about this?”

Crutchie snorted. “I don’t care who knows how good my feet look. One of them doesn’t work, so it might as well work it.”

You laughed until you had to lean over. The woman working on your feet gave you a reproachful look, but she was fighting back a smile.

You filed the statement away so you could bask in it later, forcing the laughter down. “That’s right, Crutch. You’re already so handsome; this is all it take to push you straight into gorgeous.”

The woman at your feet smiled outright. “You two are adorable.”

“Thanks,” Crutchie said pleasantly. “We try.”

You shot him a sappy grin, knowing that he would have to fight back a snort when he saw it. “I hardly have to try. Crutchie is cute enough on his own.”

“The pot says to the kettle,” he cooed.

Though he was out of reach, you stretched out one hand for him. “Love you, boo.”

He reached for you, fingertips nearly able to touch yours. Your chest ached a little when you couldn’t quite touch, though that was the point of reaching. “Miss you.”

The woman’s eyebrows skyrocketed.

“We aren’t dating,” you said, taking pity on her. “We’re just bros.”

“Love you, bro,” Crutchie said.

“Awe, bro.”

“Believe it or not,” she said dryly, “that doesn’t make you guys less cute.”

Crutchie laughed. “That’s got nothing to do with me. Y/N could bring the cute out of Satan.”

You had to suppress a squirm of pleasure. He was wrong; Crutchie was adorable. He was also mischievous, annoying, and idealistic, but all of that accompanied by a winning smile and an unfailingly positive attitude.

“Believe me,” you said to the woman. “It’s Crutchie.”

The man working on Crutchie snorted. “Are you sure you aren’t dating?”

“Usually,” you said lightly. It was as true as anything else you had said.

 

 

At the end of the day, after stuffing yourselves with cheese curds and soft pretzels, you stared at the treats you and Crutchie had splurged on.

“Oh, Crutchie,” you said sadly. “Is this the best you could come up with?”

He had his earbuds, new socks, and a crossword puzzle book to play ‘so I can live up to my grandpa reputation with the fellas.’

To be fair, the day was for small treats. Neither of you could afford full on, Parks and Rec style splurges. Still, you were sure he wanted more than this. What about fun shirts? Comfortable sweaters? He could at least have gone for fun socks; white socks were never a treat.

“I’m a man of simple pleasures,” he protested.

“You’re a man now?” You crooned the words, poking him in the side to watch him squirm with delight. “Oh, my little Crutchie is all grown uhhhhhhhhhp.” You dragged out the last word, running your fingers along his ribs while he laughed.

“Y/N,” he said - almost squealed, not that you would tell anyone. He wrapped an arm around you, crushing your arms to your sides and your chest into his so you couldn’t move.

You were still laughing, unable to contain the giggles as you leaned your forehead against his shoulder. “Unhand me.”

“Are you done?” He smiled into your hair, sighing cheerfully as he adjusted his arms into more of a hug than a prison.

You considered, taking a deep breath. He smelled like shampoo; something fruity, not something with a ‘manly’ name like SHOCK or ANARCHY or I LIKE CHOPPING WOOD. Your heart stuttered a little. “Yeah,” you sighed. “Yeah, let’s call this a draw.”

He snorted, but let you go to pick up the bags he dropped. “Seriously, though. I don’t need much to feel treated. Treated sounds weird. Treat. Trote.”

“It doesn’t just have to be buying stuff,” you said. It almost sounded like a plea. You wanted him to love this day. You wanted him to look back on this day and smile, no matter how much time passed. “It could be an experience or something.”

“Like what?”

“Bowling. An all-you-can-eat buffet. We could TP a house. I could wingman you while you try to make out with your crush.”

The last one was clearly a joke, but his smile tensed. “Are those treats for me, or treats for you?”

“Those are just examples!” You threw your hands up, exasperated. “I want this to be the perfect day for you, Crutchie. Think. If there was any one thing to make a normal day into the Best Day Ever, what would it be?”

He shifted, uncomfortable. He ignored the frown you shot him. “I dunno, Y/N. This has been a great day. I don’t need anything else.”

One more try, you promised yourself. One more, and if he still said he was fine, that would be it. “Today isn’t about needs. It’s about wants.”

“I already have you,” he protested. “Why can’t that be my treat?”

“You always have me.” Why would that make the day special?

He became very interested in shifting his bags from one arm to the other. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t make the day less great. It wouldn’t have been as much fun with anybody else.”

You forced a laugh, hoping it masked the way your chest constricted. Worrying that it wasn’t enough, you distracted yourself by fixing the collar of his shirt. You must have messed it up when you tickled him. “Awe, bro.”

“Not really like that,” he said with a cringe.

“Like what, then?” Your hands froze at his neck while you waited for him to respond.

He blinked at you, eyes wide and sad. His face was very close to yours, and you could see it registering with him in the way his eyes flickered all over yours. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours.

Your eyes closed, but it didn’t stop you from knowing the exact second his lips would brush against yours.

Your fingers latched onto his collar again, no doubt messing it up further, but you didn’t care. You used the leverage to pull him closer, and you heard no protestations. All you heard was his sharp inhale and his cane slipping from where it leaned against the table. Neither sound made as much of an impression as his lips or his fingertips.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far. “Was that enough of an experience?”

“Treat yo’self,” you said. His nose was still brushing against yours, and you smiled. “That was great, bro.”

He gave a huff of laughter before pulling away. “So that’s enough? The day can end now that I’ve made it into my Best Day Ever?”

“We could go back for those shirts,” you offered. You leaned over to pick up his cane, and when you handed it off to him, he shifted the bags onto his wrist so he could hold your hand in his free one.

“No,” he said quickly. “No, this was good enough.”

“But having a shirt would let you remember today all the time,” you said dramatically. “You’d never have to forget.”

“I’ll just stick with repeating the experience, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine.” Great, really. Really, really great.


	47. Girl, You're Freaking Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was listening to Ben Fankhauser sing "girl you're freakin' out" with Ephie Aardema and I had like a vivid vision of a modern, high school davey fic kind of based on the first verse of that song? If you've got the time i would love you forever if you blessed us w that (or any) davey fluff <3”

You took a swig of an off-brand soda, grimacing as you swallowed. “Tell your mom to get name brand stuff.”

Davey, sitting on the floor by your side, shrugged. “There’s no point. She doesn’t think there’s a difference.”

You wiped at your nose with a tissue, taking a hitching breath. “There is. Tell her that if she wants me to come to your house, I need the goods.”

He pushed the tissue box a little closer, face softening. “She’d just laugh at you. She doesn’t invite you over.”

“She loves me.”

You could see Davey’s hesitation to ask you about the breakup. It was stupid - you didn’t know why you were crying. You dumped your boyfriend, not the other way around. You hadn’t cared about him in a romantic way in a long time, so breaking up was more of a relief than anything. 

You had called Davey to tell him that you had done it, and he invited you over to take your mind off it all. You walked into his house, saw him smile at you in greeting, and promptly burst into tears.

He wanted to ask you about it. You could feel the confusion and worry pouring off him in waves, but you didn’t really understand it either. 

You blew your nose one more time and took another drink. “Tell me about your day.”

“It was fine,” he said.

You turned to look at him, rolling your eyes. “Davey, tell me about your day.”

He sighed, but rewarded you with a small smile. “Really, it was okay. I went to school. I came home. I did homework. I read. Now I have you here. Basic day. How about you?” He asked the question with a crooked grin.

“Same here,” you said with a grim smile.

“You don’t normally cry on basic days,” he said.

“Oh,” you said. “Well, I saw this bird nest on your porch. There was a baby bird in it, and baby things make me cry.”

“Y/N.”

“They’re so small.”

You waited for him to tell you not to lie, to ask you how your day really was, but he didn’t. He squeezed your leg, let his hand stay on your thigh, and started talking about a documentary on mushrooms he had watched the day before.

 

 

“This soda is so gross,” you said again.

“I can tell - the fact that this is your third one definitely proves your point.”

He dragged his laptop over and put Monsters vs. Aliens on. He claimed that it was because the movie was good to watch when you didn’t want to pay attention, but he watched it all the time. Every time it played, his eyes would widen and his lips would curl. Sometimes, if he didn’t know you were looking, he would mouth along with the words.

You could still feel the sidelong looks Davey would shoot you, but you didn’t have any answers. You were happy to be done with the relationship. You were okay with how the conversation had gone. It was just Davey, maybe. That little furrow between his eyes. The way he looked so happy to see you, even knowing that you might be sad. Looking at Davey tonight was like when you were a kid - you would get hurt, but be fine until somebody asked you if you were okay. Whether you were okay or not, the tears would well.

Tonight, you looked at Davey, and something that hadn’t bothered you for a long time started to fester. Something fluttery and not appropriate the day of your breakup. You had not known what to do, so you had burst into tears.

Sometimes you really hated yourself.

At the end of the movie, he grinned at you. “I love that movie.”

“I know.”

“You can talk to me about this, you know.”

“I know,” you said again.

It was sort of true. Davey was your best friend. When you bought a candy bar at school, you shared it with him. When Halloween came around, he would do a partner costume with you. If a teacher said to work in pairs, the two of you didn’t even have to look at each other; you just knew that he was with you. When he brought you into his room tonight, grabbing tissues and snacks on the way, he didn’t say a word when you sat on the floor by his bed instead of on the bed or his chair. He sat next to you, never complaining about how much more comfortable furniture was.

He was your best friend, but he was the best friend that you had liked periodically over the years. You would like him, and when he started seeing somebody else, you would shut it off and look to other boys. He was your best friend, but your best friend who was probably more than that in a million parallel universes.

“Have you ever noticed,” you said suddenly, “that you and I are never single at the same time?”

He blinked, surprised. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

“It’s just weird. Crazy timing.”

“I guess,” he said. He didn’t look at you, instead readjusting the strings of his hoodie. He stuck his tongue out while he he tugged, eyebrows furrowing. “It’s just one of those things.”

It was getting late. You were tired, and crying had made you feel loose and sleepy. You wanted to curl up on Davey’s floor and sleep, or talk about everything and nothing.

You should go home.

Instead, you talked. “Do you think, if we had been single at the same time, that anything would have happened between us?”

His eyes shot to yours, wide and surprised. “I don’t know. Why, do you think we would have?”

“I think I would have wanted to at least talk about it,” you mumbled. You pulled your knees to you chest and hugged them, already wishing you hadn’t brought it up. You were tired. Tired Y/N should not be given control over important things, like word choice and feelings. Tired Y/N misused them.

Davey sat in silence for a minute. When he did speak, it was cautious and carefully void of emotion. “Do you - have you wanted to date me? Before, I mean?”

“Well, yeah. You know, you’re really nice. And cute, and smart. Everything about you is everything that I want in a boyfriend. The feelings have always been there, so -”

Davey put his hand on your cheek, turned your head to face him, and kissed you. 

It was not fire, or fireworks, or whatever it was that you had read in a romance novel you snuck from the library in middle school. It was a broad, open feeling in your chest. It was something that made the world feel very big, but it didn’t make you feel small - it made you feel bigger, too. It was the small scrape of Davey’s 5 o’clock shadow against your chin and lips. It was you thinking that this was so much better than the last time you had been kissed -

By your now ex-boyfriend. Who you had broken up with a few hours before.

You pulled away. “Wait. Wait. I’m not sure we should be doing this.”

“Right.” Davey pulled away from you like a shot, cheeks burning and eyes averted. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you. I just thought you meant -”

“I did,” you rushed. “I did mean. But I don’t know if this is the time.”

“Oh.” The relief in his voice was palpable. “Totally. We should think this through. Take all the time you need.”

You bit your lip, noting the way it burned a little now. You thought of the way his hand rested on your thigh earlier in the evening. “Maybe, while I think -”

You crawled back over to him, bracing your hands on his shoulders while you pulled him back to you. He made a noise of surprise, but didn’t hesitate to sigh into you. You straddled his legs, and he put his hands on your waist to hold you closer.

You thought. It didn’t feel like you had reached out blindly, heartbroken, and found Davey reaching back for you. It felt more like you had seen Davey and reached for him.

It didn’t feel like a rebound. It didn’t feel like you were so desperate for somebody, anybody, that you had jumped the bones of your best friend - the best friend who, apparently, had been just as hopeful as you had been. 

Davey had told you once that the two things that could make or break a relationship were feelings and timing. Maybe the two of you had always had the feelings, but the timing had been wrong until now.

You pulled back, huffing out a smile when his face followed yours a little. “Okay.”

“What?” His eyes were wide and glazed.

“I’m all in. I thought, and I’m in.”

He grinned. “Really?”

“Definitely. I think that this is good. You and I are good.”

His hands slid up to your neck, thumb brushing against the line of your jaw. “We’re good,” he echoed. “I like the way you think.”

You leaned back in to kiss him. It seemed like, for once, Tired Y/N had not abused her power.


	48. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hiii!! I really love your stories, you’re an amazing writer. Can I pleaseeee ask for one where the reader‘s parents arrange a marriage for her, but she is in love with Davey?”

“Look at Y/N,” Race crooned. “Out hunting for a husband. The closest thing to a pirate we’ll ever know.”

“Aye,” you said. “No treasure in sight.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I see plenty of booty.”

You laughed, appalled, while Davey shoved him. Race practically skipped away, chortling all the while. 

“Teenage boys are degenerates,” Davey said with a withering smile. He lowered himself onto your bench, leaning over to retie his shoe. It looked tight enough to you, but who were you to judge?

“All of them,” you agreed with a pointed look. “I’m not offended, though.”

“No? Give it time. Race will drive you away sooner or later.”

“No,” you said. It was true; you could handle Race. You wished you would have the chance to. The trouble was, your days were numbered. “I’d be fine. I’m not sure I’ll have much time, though. My husband hunt is over.”

“Oh?” Davey’s brow furrowed, and he looked a little younger than he had before. “I didn’t know you were seeing anybody.”

He casually stood from the bench, putting space between the two of you. He hadn’t been close to touching you, but you were a little colder than you had been before. You wanted him to come back. “I mean, it isn’t like that. My parents arranged the match.”

“An arranged marriage?” Davey had been wringing his hat in his hand, worrying at a loose thread, but he froze when you uttered the words. “What is this, the 1500s?”

You cringed. “Maybe arranged marriage wasn’t the best way to put it. I wasn’t traded for cows, or anything.”

“What is it, then?”

“An understanding, I guess.” It had always been assumed that you would marry the butcher’s son. There were many mostly-unspoken agreements between your family and his. They would trade meat for produce from your family’s store. When one couple wanted to go out, the other couple would watch the kids. When you were of marrying age, it was assumed that you would be marrying Allan.

“Do you get any say?”

Say? You frowned. Of course you didn’t have any say. Options were for people who could afford to have more than one choice. Options were for people with money. Your family didn’t have money; you just had the store. Even then, it was only because of the trades with the butcher. If it wasn’t for him, you might never have gotten meat at all. You didn’t answer Davey, but the look on your face was answer enough.

“That sounds like an arranged marriage to me,” he said.

You took a bite off of your carrot, breaking a chunk of the opposite side off for Davey. He bit into it thoughtfully, and you gave him an anxious grin. “C’mon, Dave, it isn’t that different from anybody else.”

“Of course it is,” he snorted. “Other people love their spouses first, Y/N.”

“Love comes later,” you frowned. That was what your mother always said. That you had your entire life to fall in love with Allan, that marriage was a necessity to help your family. “People hardly ever fall in love before they get married. Not real love, anyway.”

“Yes, they do.” Davey didn’t look appalled anymore. He wasn’t surprised or confused. He just looked sad, and it made you sad in a way that you didn’t understand.

 

 

“All of these strikes,” Allan said bitterly. “They’re terrible.”

“What do you mean?” You forced a smile while you bagged lettuce and radishes for a customer. Allan had come by to visit you during his break, and you were wishing that he hadn’t.

“People are complaining for something that’s their own fault,” he explained. His eyes roamed across the newspaper, not straying to you once. Maybe he didn’t want to be there, either. “They wouldn’t be struggling this much if they just worked harder.”

Your customer service smile withered. “You can’t possible mean everybody.”

“I do.” He looked up at you, earnest. “Everybody would be doing fine if they worked harder.”

“What about the Newsies? They’re children. Children shouldn’t have to work for a living.”

“Their parents should be working harder, then,” he said dismissively.

You gritted your teeth. What of kids like Jack and Race, who had no parents to provide for them? How much harder should they have to work, just so they could get by? And then you had Davey and Les, whose father got hurt at work. If the parents can’t work, if that their fault? Should the kids have to pay for it?

“What about my family?” You forced a grin, letting your bitterness seap in. “What about our struggles? They should just be working harder?”

Allan’s mouth slammed shut. He had the good grace to look embarrassed, but not enough to look repentant. “Well,” he said lightly, “you won’t have to worry about that for much longer.”

“No,” you said. You struggled to keep your voice even. “No, I suppose I won’t.”

 

 

“Ain’t you a little young to get married?” Les looked you up and down appraisingly. 

You grinned, crooked and genuine. “Sure feels that way.”

“So don’t.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be working?”

Les frowned, and for a second he looked almost like his brother. “We have to. For our parents.”

“Exactly.”

His frown deepened, then disappeared as realization dawned. “You’s doing it for your family?”

“Sure. Who else would I do it for?”

“I dunno.” Les kicked a clump of dirt on the ground and took a drink of his water. “Is he handsome?”

You considered. “If you like sweat, meat juice, and big hands.”

“I don’t,” Les said. He laughed, high and light. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Do you like blue?”

“Yes,” you said, confused.

“Do you like the smell of ink?”

“I suppose.”

“That’s good,” Les said, satisfied. “Because Davey thinks you’re pretty. And that’s what Davey is like, so you can just marry him someday. Later, though.”

Jack, sitting a few chairs down, snorted into his water. “Kid, I don’t think you’s supposed to be saying that.”

“What? It’s true.”

Jack shot you a crooked smile. “The kid talks too much.”

“Or, maybe, everybody else doesn’t talk enough,” you countered.

“What, was that something you’d want to know?”

You bit your lip, thinking. Did you want to know that Davey - handsome Davey, who sometimes let you read a paper with him before it was time to start selling them, and played tic-tac-toe in the alley dust when you took out the trash - thought you were pretty?

“Yes,” you decided. “It’s Davey. If he has - thoughts, or feelings, or something, I’d want to know.”

“Because it changes things?”

No. No, probably not, but you wanted to remember this. You wanted to remember good days with good people, and Davey was the best of them all.

 

 

It was the day before the wedding, and you were unhappy.

It’s fine, you promised yourself. Love can come later. You don’t have to love Allan now. Maybe he likes to sing. Maybe he smells nice, and he’ll make everything else smell nice too. Maybe he’s wonderful with children. Maybe he’s funny once you know him.

You knew him, and he never made you want to laugh.

It’s fine. Love can come later. You don’t have to be in love before the wedding.

You picked up a flower that had fallen out of somebody’s bouquet earlier in the day. You carefully picked off the petals, startling when a hand came out of nowhere to snatch one out of the air.

“Finding out if he loves you or not?” Davey smiled at you, but his eyes were distant.

“Nah. I already know the answer to that.”

His grin faltered. “I’m sorry.”

You shrugged.

“No, Y/N, seriously.” He grabbed the hand holding the mangled flower and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you don’t get to choose. I’m sorry that you wouldn’t want to choose him, if you didn’t have to.”

“That’s life, I guess.” Your chest ached when you saw him so unhappy, so you smiled. “Hey. Hey, don’t be sorry. I have a really good life.”

“Yeah?” He pulled the flower from your fingers and twirled it between his fingers.

“Totally. I have -” You faltered, looking around for something positive. “I have - carrots.” You trailed off, and Davey laughed.

“Carrots. I can see why you’re so okay. Carrots make everything better.”

“My snowmen are set for life,” you agreed.

“Your eyesight is stellar.”

“If I ever have a problem with a horse, I have a good solution.”

Davey was smiling again, so your smile came easier. “You’re right. All is well in Y/N-land. Carrots.”

Heart stuttering, you threw out another perk. “And I have you.”

“Awful lot of good that’s done you,” he said. 

“Hey,” you argued. “Hey, that’s not fair. It isn’t what you do, it’s who you are. I can’t believe that this world is terrible when somebody like you came out of it.”

“That’s funny,” he said. He tucked the broken flower behind your ear and backed away. “I’ve always thought the same thing about you.”

It was the strangest thing; as soon as Davey was out of sight, you had to swallow the bile creeping up your throat. You weren’t nauseous, exactly; it was like you had become afraid so rapidly that your body tried to expel it in any way it could.

You had fallen in love before the wedding, and it was not with your fiance.

It was not fine.

 

 

If Davey was surprised to see you on the fire escape outside his window, he didn’t show it. He just crawled out to meet you. “Y/N? Is everything alright?”

“Nothing is ever all right.”

“Is everything sort of right, then?” He normally would have teased you about the correction, but the usual light in his eyes had dimmed. You could count the hours before your wedding on your fingers, and you wondered if maybe he was doing the same.

“Not yet,” you said.

“But in a few hours, it will be,” he said. His words reminded you of Allan’s, and you cringed.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“So, what’s up?”

You shrugged. “I wanted to ask you something.”

His eyebrows rose a little. “Oh?”

“What are my options, here? You know all of the reasons for me to marry Allan.” Money. To help your family. Because people were counting on you. Because if you said no, you had nothing. “Can you think of any reasons for me not to?”

He swallowed. The light from the moon wasn’t enough for you to get a good look at his face, but there was enough for you to see the way the muscles in his jaw twitched. “Why?”

“I want a choice, and you’re better at seeing choices than anybody.”

“You could marry him, or you could leave him,” he said. He avoided your eyes.

“Davey.” His eyes met yours. “If I leave him, my parents won’t see me again. What are my options?”

“Become a secretary,” he said immediately. “Join the Newsies. Find somebody else to marry, posthaste.”

You licked your lips. “I’m not ready to get married.”

“No,” he said with a small smile. “No, I didn’t think you were.”

“I don’t love Allan, and I don’t think he loves me.”

“No, I never thought you did,” he said.

“I want to be in love with the man I marry,” you said, looking him in the eye.

“You should be.”

“At this point, that makes you the only option,” you finished.

His adam’s apple bobbed. “Huh.”

You waited for him to continue, to shoot you down, accept you, anything at all. There was nothing. “I’m not asking you for today. I’m asking you for someday.”

He gave a bark of bewildered laughter. “You don’t know that you’ll want me someday.”

“If I do, what does that mean for you?”

“That I’ll marry you,” he finally said. He clenched his hands around the railing, but you saw the way his fingers trembled. You traced a finger along his knuckles, noting the way he relaxed them after.

“Until then,” you said, “I’ll find a place to stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you said.

He leaned in, kissed your forehead, and crawled back through his window. “That doesn’t mean I’m not. Just to be clear - I’m not marrying you because I’m sorry. I’m marrying you because you’re my favorite choice, every time.”

He closed the window, and you climbed back to the ground. You headed toward the Lodge, figuring that it would be a good place to spend the night. Maybe a lot of nights, if need be. You were scared of the future, of course, but the idea of a future with Davey was the only one that made you think the future wasn’t such a bad thing.


	49. Ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “you’d think after spending two or so weeks writing a multi-part fake dating fic abt race that i would be tired of it, but i am most certainly not. timer is like my fave story ever and whenever you’re free can i beg for a little fake relationship davey? he’s my baby boy and i miss him. also also, how are you feeling now?”

“Oscar, Morris,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t have thought you guys would sell tickets to the dance.”

“Didn’t know you did much thinking, Jack.” Oscar grinned up at him and held out a hand. “You buying, or not?”

Jack bought two tickets - one for himself, and one for Katherine. You suspected that she didn’t know he was buying her a ticket, and that she would insist on buying dinner the night of.

“It only makes sense,” Race said as he approached the table. “If you can’t get a date to the dance, you might as well sell the tickets instead. You got a date, Delancey?”

Neither boy said anything.

“Are you trolling for dates? Asking the single girls when they buy tickets?” Albert slammed a few dollar bills on the table, pocketing the tickets as he walked by. He didn’t bother waiting for an answer.

Next in line, directly ahead of you, was Davey. He didn’t make any jibes when he asked for a ticket, much to his own credit.

Morris gave a wolfish grin. “Just one ticket? Looks like you couldn’t get a date.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Oscar tutted. “Can’t believe nobody wanted to go with somebody all brain, and nothing else.” He gave a pointed look to somewhere lower on Davey’s anatomy, and your heart stuttered with rage.

You could see the muscles in Davey’s jaw ticking, but he said nothing.

Davey was associated with every bout of righteous anger you had ever felt. He was seldom angry on his own, seldom verbally upset; you had always taken it on yourself to be angry for him. You got angry when people were unkind to him. You got angry when he was unkind to himself. You got angry now, when people accused the most desirable boy in the world of being something less.

He had not asked you to the dance, and that was fine. He had not asked you for help, and that was fine. But this - this was not fine, and you would fix it for him.

“Actually,” you said in a sweet, slow voice, “I asked Davey to go to the dance with me ages ago. He was going to ask me out, but I couldn’t wait another second.” You wrapped an arm around his waist and laid your head against the side of his chest, pretending not to notice the stiff way he raised his arm to put it around you.

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you buy Y/N a ticket?”

Davey shuffled, not prepared to be thinking on his feet. “Our parents are paying for the tickets. Y/N didn’t want my parents buying tickets for both of us.”

“Besides,” you said as you slid your own money across the table, “I don’t see how it has anything to do with you. What my boyfriend and I do is our business.”

You linked your arm with his, dragging him away. “Wait to get upset until we round the corner, please,” you mumbled. 

3\. 2. 1.

“Y/N, I don’t know what that was, but it was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” Davey said.

“I’m not sure about that,” you stalled. “I’ve done some really stupid stuff. Really, if you put me in a room with Race -”

“What’s the excuse now?” He had his hands on his hips, like an old man. It was funny, in a strange way, but he looked serious enough for you to choke down a smile. “If Race wasn’t involved, how can you explain that?”

“They were making fun of you,” you said. “So I made them stop.”

“By saying we’re going out? How did that help?”

You crossed your arms, irritation flickering in your chest. “They shut up, didn’t they? They said that you couldn’t get a date, and now they’re wrong.”

He scoffed. “I’m sure it’ll be just peachy when they see that you and I aren’t dating. I’ll bet we’ll all have a big, chummy laugh about it.”

“So we date.” You spread your arms wide, like you were gesturing to a master plan. “Just for a while - until the dance, at least. If the Delanceys fall for it, they’ll leave you alone.”

Davey rubbed a hand across his face, weary. The move gave you hope - it was the action of a middle aged man. He was visibly getting younger. He must be warming up to the idea. “You’ve made a real mess of things, Y/N.”

“Not if it works,” you said. You started walking, bumping him with your hip to get him to follow. “If it works, you’ll look like a total hottie. Hotter than you already are.”

He huffed out a laugh, and you relaxed. “That’s no great leap.”

“It’s like jumping the Grand Canyon,” you argued cheerfully. “I didn’t know it was possible for you to get more appealing, but this might take the cake.”

“I hate you,” he said.

“Is that any way to talk to your date?”

He gave you a light shove, and all of the tension left your shoulders. This wouldn’t be so bad - it would be the same as always, but with more touching and longing looks. That was, like, your dream job.

 

 

“So, what’s your plan for this?” When Davey invited you to go to the mall with him, it had ended exactly as you had expected - with the two of you sprawled out in an aisle at Barnes and Noble. “Our relationship, I mean.”

“Why do I have to have a plan? You were the one that got this started; shouldn’t you decide how it ends?”

You leveled a hand at him, uncharacteristically serious. “This is about your image. I started this, but it ends when you won’t feel weird telling people that we broke up. How long does it need to go on before you think people will back off?”

He gave a thoughtful hum, paging through a book about New York myths and legends. “I don’t think we should set a date. We should let it happen organically, so nobody feels like it’s fishy that a perfect couple broke up for no reason.”

“So we should just let it go on indefinitely?” You gave a wry smile at the thought of dating Davey for months, maybe years, just because he never felt like people would buy the breakup. Honestly, you wouldn’t be mad about being with him for that long. Screw it - you should marry him, just to prove to the world that he was worth marrying.

“Is there somebody else you wanted to be with?” The question sounded like it sat uncomfortably on his tongue; like he hadn’t thought of it, or hadn’t wanted to think of it.

“Nope. Was there somebody for you? Did I ruin a plan of yours?”

“No,” he said. Then, with a bitter twist of his mouth, “dating you doesn’t change any plans that I made.”

You grabbed a book at random so you could partially hide your face. The smile you sported, specifically. You pretended to be engrossed in a book about psychogeography, but watched the bitterness bleed out of Davey’s face until only wistfulness was left.

 

 

The easiest way to keep everything from falling apart was to tell everybody that the relationship was real. You loved your friends, and you normally loved the gossip they shared with you, but it only cemented the fact that the truth would spread through the school if you told them it was all fake. It had been Davey’s idea to just let them believe it, and the idea grew on you with each reaction you witnessed.

“I didn’t know that Davey noticed other people. Like, at all.”

“Y/N and Davey. I always saw it coming; I was just telling Elmer the other day -”

“Amazeballs.”

“Dude, Y/N will eat him alive.”

Davey’s jaw had dropped at the last one, but you had grinned. Yes, maybe so. Davey was resilient, but he had never been great at fighting against you. His skill was endurance.

It was, unsurprisingly, Jack that made you wish you could tell the truth. He had approached you when Davey was nowhere to be seen.

“So, you asked Dave out?”

“Yeah,” you said. A half truth; better than you could give most people.

He rubbed his thumb along his jaw, giving you an appraising look. “Good. I’ve been talking to him about asking you out, but I didn’t think it was going to happen.”

“Really?”

“He’d rather imagine doing something than actually get it started. He’s an idea man, and dating you would take an action.”

“Well,” you said uncomfortably, “I guess it’s a good thing I made a move, huh?”

Jack grinned. “Sure. Try not to ruin him, huh?”

“I think I did that by asking him out at all,” you joked.

“All other people have been ruined for him since he met you,” Jack said. “It was good of you to finish the job.”

“Believe me, I feel the same way about him.” Finally, a full truth.

 

 

“I hadn’t realized we were telling our families,” you hissed.

“I didn’t,” he mumbled back. He leaned past you to grab the salt, using the reach to whisper in your ear. “Les heard from some of the guys. He told my parents. They remembered you from other times you’ve been here, but wanted to meet you as my significant other.”

“David,” his mother admonished. “Ask someone to pass something if you want it. Don’t climb on top of Y/N.”

You gave a delicate cough, using the sound to mask the words “or do.”

Davey flushed, but stuffed his mouth with pork to cover it.

You grinned, but it faltered when you thought about how different the implications were when you straddled the line between friend and date. As a friend, sexual jokes were funny because they weren’t true at all. If he was your boyfriend, it would be funny because it could be true. Instead, you were trapped between impossibility and the desire for it to be true.

Davey’s father was kind. His mother was welcoming. Les was playfully furious that Davey had kept you a secret. None of them had an inkling that the two of you were playing them, and it was easy for you to pretend that you weren’t when you were there.

Davey walked you to the door after dinner, and he frowned when you sighed on the way out. “What?”

“I was so worried that people would figure out that I lied that it didn’t occur to me how hard it would be to keep lying.”

“You’re doing a good job of it,” he said with a crooked smile. “You make lying look easy.”

That wasn’t the type of hard you had meant, and both of you knew it.

“They’ll be crushed when this is over,” you sighed.

He squeezed your arm, stepping out onto the front porch. “It won’t be easy for us either, you know.”

“I know.” You plastered on a grin, reaching up to kiss his cheek. It was late evening, but his face was still smooth and soft. “See you.” You walked down the steps and started down the sidewalk, ready to go let all of your feelings out where nobody would see.

“Hey.”

You turned back to Davey, raising your eyebrows in acknowledgment. “What?”

“I’m happy we’re going to the dance together. Really.” He combed his fingers through his hair, all embarrassed sincerity. “I know I was kind of a jerk at first, but I’m happy it’s you.”

“Me too,” you said earnestly. “I know that I shouldn’t have pulled a stunt like this, but I like how it’s turning out.”

“And they all lived happily, at least for now,” he said. That wry smile was back, and Jack’s words echoed in your ears. 

All other people have been ruined for him since he met you. 

 

 

“You know, I’m not sure we’re doing this right,” you yawned.

“Yeah?”

“I think when you go to a school dance, you’re supposed to go inside the school,” you said. The two of you hadn’t even lasted until the first slow dance. It was so warm, and there were too many teenagers, so Davey had suggested going outside. The two of you had been trying to stargaze for an hour, and neither of you wanted to go back in.

“Maybe. To be fair, this would probably be really romantic if we lived someplace that had a sky filled with stars,” he offered.

“You’re letting me lay on your jacket. That’s pretty romantic.” You paused, thinking. “Is romantic the goal, here?”

“I dunno,” he said. “This is a date.”

“Not a fake one?”

You heard him shift, but couldn’t see his face. “Does it feel fake?”

“No.” It hadn’t felt fake for a while.

“I don’t think it’s fake, then,” he concluded.

You smiled at the mostly star-less sky. The darkness threatened to swallow you whole, but that didn’t sound so scary with Davey lying next to you. “Since this isn’t fake, can I hold your hand?”

Davey’s hand floundered a bit while it searched for yours, but everything snapped into place once his fingers wrapped around yours.

“Yeah,” he sighed. A smile thickened his voice, and you thought that you might kiss him later. You wanted to swallow the sound, and memorize the curve of his lips and ridges of his teeth. “Yeah, this doesn’t feel fake at all.”

It was nice to know that you had been able to tell the difference between something real with Davey and something fake. It was nice to know that he could feel it too.


	50. The Lock In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “what about a story where the reader and a newsie are oblivious to each other's feelings but everyone else has just had it and decide they should just lock them in a room together and make them confess their love for each other and they end up together and happy? (i hope this prompt is cool enough, ur writing is amazing and i love it sm :))”

“I don’t know what you did to piss off the others,” you sighed, “but I wish that you hadn’t dragged me into this.”

You had been locked in the laundry room at Davey’s house for twenty minutes, and it didn’t feel like a joke anymore. As far as you knew, none of the others had a beef with you, so it had to be Albert.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said. His hair blazed in the dank room, and his eyes flashed with indignation. “Probably.”

You leveled a hand at him, only half joking. “See? You wouldn’t know if you upset somebody. You probably ate too many of Race’s cheetos or something. Next time, at least offer me some. If I’m getting punished, I want to have committed a crime.”

Albert’s feet swayed back and forth, his back to the washing machine. “I really don’t think I did anything. Race told both of us to come in here, remember? You didn’t get caught in the crossfire. This includes you.”

Your phone buzzed, and you jumped at the loud rattle it made against the stone floor.

Race: seems like a good time for love confessions

Race: and making out

Race: as long as you guys are stuck in there

You gave a thick swallow. “Yeah, maybe it’s a crappy joke. Race is a little tasteless sometimes. Davey or Mush will let us out eventually.”

Albert checked a text on his phone. You froze, convinced that Race had texted him to tell him about your crush. That stupid little -

“We’ll call the cops if we aren’t free by morning,” Albert said lightly, pocketing the phone.

“Sure,” you agreed. “I’m not sure that the cops are a match for our friends, but sure.”

 

 

All things considered, your crush on Albert was bearable.

He never talked about crushes, so you could pretend that you were the person he had eyes for. The two of you never had moments that, left uninterrupted, may have turned into something more. Your attraction to him was more of an active appreciation than an overwhelming flame of desire.

He was the Percy to your Annabeth, not the Edward to your Bella. Thank God.

So really, you were fine. You wanted and wanted and wanted, but didn’t need and need and need.

For your friends, it was unbearable.

“I swear, I just want to mash his face against yours,” Katherine told you once. “The whole friend-dating thing is cute, but a girl can only handle so much circling before a kill must be made.”

“That’s really dramatic,” you laughed. “That sounds like a porn summary.”

Jack snorted. “She’s not wrong, Y/N. You guys are just sitting there, and there’s no reason for it. You guys like each other. You aren’t dating anybody else. What are you waiting for?”

For him to actually like me back, you wanted to say. For a point in time that proves that the benefits outweigh the costs. Because, let’s be real, even if the two of you stayed friends after a rejection, it would change. Both of you would be trying to figure out what habits were driven by the crush, and which were purely friendly. If you started liking somebody else, you would transfer those habits to the new interest. Things would change, and limbo was better than that risk.

“I’m not waiting for anything,” you said. You ate a spoonful of pudding, glancing across the lunchroom to where Albert stood in line for food. “I’m just not moving.”

 

 

Albert spun a quarter on the ground, waiting for another text from the guys. Several of them had been texting him, telling him that all he had to do to get out was tell Y/N how he felt.

He had tried lying to them - telling Davey that he already had, but Jack texted him a few minutes later.

Jack: so if we ask Y/N how the love confession went, it won’t be a surprise?

Albert: it might be a little surprising

Albert didn’t know what to do with soft feelings. Everything always felt big, piercing, infectious. Then there was you, and there were smooth edges, fluid transitions, and slow changes. The world relaxed when you were around, and he didn’t know how to describe that to you in a way that wasn’t overwhelming or stupid.

He wanted something real, and he didn’t know how to say it in a way that wasn’t big, piercing, or infectious.

Albert: this isnt fair. this isnt how i wanted this to go

Jack: how was it supposed to go?

Albert: naturally. without an audience

Jack: you werent doing it naturally, and youre as far from us as you ever are

You had your eyes closed, chin resting on your arms while you laid on the ground. Albert crawled over and laid in front of you, a mirror image. He closed his eyes, started to speak, and swallowed his words when you spoke instead.

“I really like you, you know.”

 

 

You could feel his breath mingling with yours, so it seemed as good a time as any. Sure, you wished that you had been chewing gum or something, and maybe it would be nice to know if your face looked stupid in this position, but none of that would make or break his opinion of you. Probably.

“I’m not saying so because I’m expecting you to say it back,” you continued. “It’s my fault we’re stuck down here, and you shouldn’t have to be locked in here just because I’m a coward.”

“What do you mean? They locked us down here because they wanted me to tell you that I like you,” Albert said, confused.

Your eyes opened, and you saw surprise and hesitant pleasure on his face. Maybe your face mirrored that. “I thought - I guess they decided to kill two birds with one stone.”

So, what now?

“Well, we did it,” he finally said. “I guess we can text them and get out.”

“So, that’s it?” Your lips quirked into a bitter half smile. “We like each other, we both know it, and now it all goes back to normal?”

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” you said, and it was the first time normal wasn’t good enough. “No, I think we can do better than normal.”

He sat up, so you did the same. “Alright,” he said. “You don’t want normal. What do you want?”

You wanted to hold his hand sometimes. You wanted to text him in the middle of the night without worrying about what he thought your intentions were, because he already knew what you wanted from him. You wanted to hang out with him alone, and you wanted to be told that the two of you made a cute couple. You didn’t want to be scared that you were scaring away anybody else he wanted to date, because you were the only person he would ever want.

But that was too much. For now, just for the start -

“I want to go get food with you,” you finally said. “And when you take me home, I want to think about how much I want to kiss you at the door.”

Albert smiled, and the room seemed less gray than before. “Will I get to kiss you at the door?”

“That depends,” you grinned back, “on what it is that you want.”

“I want to tell our friends that we’re dating,” he said. “And when I walk you to the door, I want to kiss you goodnight.”

“Alright,” you echoed. “That’ll be our normal, for today. Let’s get started.”

When the basement door opened, you didn’t wait. You moved.


	51. Orbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “can i request a modern!race x reader where they’re in the same circle of friends but don’t really talk and end up having a really close flirty friendship that all their friends ship and they end up dating?”

“Y/N, you know that math isn’t my thing, right?” Davey ignored the packet you held in his face, raising his eyebrows at you. 

“Can you help me, or not?”

“Probably,” he sighed. He took the homework and paged through it, absently asking one more question. “Why don’t you ask Race for help?”

“Because I don’t talk much to Race,” you said. “It would be out of nowhere.”

“Friendship usually is.” Davey gave a stumbling explanation of the math concepts, periodically pointing out that if you wanted quality help, you had a friend who could actually provide it.

You knew that Race was a rockstar in his math classes. You knew that he told the best jokes, that he could skateboard like a pro, and that he made a mean grilled cheese. You knew plenty about him, which seemed a little unfair since you could count on one hand the number of times that you had a solo conversation with him.

He was one of the closest friends of all of yours, but the two of you somehow managed to stay out of each other’s orbits. It had been unintentional at first, but after years of ‘you would love him,’ you didn’t seek him out on principle.

If your math grade suffered a little as a result, so be it.

 

 

“Oh, thank God.” 

Your brow furrowed when the words came from over your shoulder, and it turned to a frown when the owner of the voice sat in the seat next to yours.

“I thought that I wasn’t going to know anybody in my testing room,” Race said. He grinned at you, and the sincerity was heavy. “You have no idea how glad I am that you’re in here.”

“It’s a shame nobody else is here,” you hedged.

“I’d take anybody,” he said. “You’re good enough for me.”

Your lips quirked into a smile. “Not sure you’re good enough for me, but I guess you’ll have to do.”

In all honesty, you would rather have been without him. Even so, the way his jaw dropped made the room a little brighter.

“I am spectacular company,” he said. “You just have bad taste.”

“I have great taste,” you countered. “You just don’t taste good.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he sneered.

Like everybody had told you, Race whizzed through the math portion. He spent his free time angling his four function calculator toward your seat and typing numbers so they spelled out words when he turned it upside down.

You didn’t know why ‘BOOBS’ made you laugh, but you got several dirty looks from your neighbors. Race grinned at you, and you grinned back.

 

 

“You know who makes the best notes for presentations? Race. I swear, it’s impossible to be nervous when you read the notes he makes. You should partner with him sometime.”

“You know, maybe I will.”

 

 

Katherine had a lot to say about being forced to change into swimsuits in the open on swim days. It would have been more interesting if she didn’t say the same things every week, and if you hadn’t already agreed with it all.

“It’s humiliating,” she reiterated.

“True that.”

“People shouldn’t be afraid to come to school, and I know for a fact that there are teenagers who have crazy anxiety about this.”

“Uh huh,” you said absently.

“What are you looking at?” She followed your gaze to where Race stood by the side of the pool, waiting for his to jump off the diving board. “Oh, I see.”

“I’m just watching the swimmers,” you said innocently.

“You’re sexing Race up with your eyes, Y/N,” Katherine grinned. “I thought you barely tolerated him.”

“We’re friends, now.”

“Mmmhmm.”

You shot her a look. “Friends can look at other friends, Kath. Remember how you used to look at Jack?”

“We make out under the bleachers at football games now.”

“Oh.” You searched for another, more valid example, but fell short. It wasn’t a big deal to like seeing Race in a swimsuit, right? Casual appraisal wasn’t a problem. 

Race glanced over at you, taking note of your gaze. He waved, smiling smugly. He repositioned himself like a swimsuit model, looking utterly ridiculous with his miles of arms and legs. He was too lanky for that pose, you told yourself. It looked stupid.

Your suddenly dry mouth said otherwise.

“Oh, indeed,” Katherine said with a cheshire smile.

 

 

“Race looked cute today. Right, Y/N?”

“Hmm.”

“That shirt made his eyes pop.”

“Hmm.”

 

 

“I didn’t like you much at first, did you know?” You tried to eat the peach in a way that wouldn’t dribble the juices all over yourself, but you were failing miserably. You settled for cupping a hand under your chin to catch them.

“When was that?” Race handed you a napkin, but you waved him off. It was too late for that.

“Like, until state testing.”

His jaw dropped, outraged. “How could you not like me for that long? We were friends for years!”

“Hardly,” you snorted. “We had the same friends. You were just that guy everybody wanted me to talk to. It felt like nagging, so I didn’t want to talk to you at all.”

“And to think,” he groused, “I liked you from the start.”

“You always were a sap.”

He threw his peach pit at you, but your hands were too full to catch it. You let it hit your shoulder, and frowned at the syrupy splotch it left behind.

“I liked you eventually,” you said. “Really, I just had to talk to you.”

“Thanks.”

“It made up for your face.”

You laughed when he jostled your hand, spilling the peach juice on your clothes. You wiped the rest of it down his leg, and he winced for the rest of the day at the stiffness of his leg hair.

(“I’ll have to amputate the leg, Y/N.”

“Take a shower and suck it up.”

“I’d let you suck it up, if you know what I mean.”

“Race, save it for in your dreams.”)

 

 

“Wanna hang out later?”

“Can’t. I’m going over to Race’s for a project.”

“Human anatomy?”

“Jesus Christ. English.”

 

 

“So,” Albert said. “You and Race, huh?”

“He’s my friend now, yeah.” You bit your lip while you measured out the water for AP Chem, wishing that your partner would pay more attention to the lab than to your relationships.

“Sure seems like more than that.”

“Because we actually talk to each other? Funny how close that makes people.”

Albert huffed out a sigh. “We all told you that you would like each other if you just talked. Now that you have, it’s obvious that you want to date. Just bone, already.”

“Crass,” you commented. He wasn’t totally wrong, of course - Race was overwhelming for your senses. All of you was conscious of all of him, and you had yet to find a solution. “Why do you care?”

“It’s physically painful to watch the two of you. Swimming through Jello would be easier than cutting through that tension.”

You laughed. “Quit being dramatic.”

“I’m not!” Albert took your pencil and poked you in the forehead with your eraser. “Get it through your skull - the two of you will be happier once you make out. Just do it.”

You harrumphed, but silently agreed. You had wasted a lot of time ignoring Race, and it was a mistake. Maybe it would be a mistake to put this off, too.

 

 

“Y/N, you seem like the type of person who could make it work with a high school sweetheart.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Sure you don’t.”

 

 

“You’re gonna kill your interview,” you said. “No question.”

“No,” Race groaned. “Lots of question. All of the question.”

Race was laying on his bed, and you were sitting on the floor next to it. Minimizing the temptation, maximizing the comforting. Sort of. 

“You’ve got this,” you urged. “NYU will be eating out of your hand by the end.”

His face was buried in a pillow, and you half wondered if he had suffocated himself. “Y/N,” he mumbled, “I really, really want to go to this school.”

“And you will. Just be yourself.”

“That’s garbage advice,” he said. He flipped his head to the side and glared at you, but it was halfhearted. “Colleges aren’t looking for all of this.”

‘This’ was accompanied by gesturing at a middle school track t-shirt, athletic shorts, and old man socks pulled all the way up to the knee.

“You’ll be wearing a suit,” you said.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

You sighed and climbed up onto the bed. You ran your fingers through his curls, and he relaxed a little. 

“Race, be yourself. That worked on me, right? You’re the coolest person I know, and you don’t even have to try.”

“I try really, really hard around you,” he said.

You scoffed, and he sat up.

“I’m serious. I was so busy trying to get you to like me that I didn’t even care about how I did on those tests. It was, like, a full time job. I wanted to be my funniest, my smartest, my most interesting. You brought out my superlatives,” he said urgently.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it only grew when Race leveled you with his tired, earnest eyes. “And it worked. You are the funniest, smartest, most interesting person I have ever known. NYU will see the same thing.”

“I hope so,” he sighed.

“Why were you trying so hard to impress me?” You couldn’t look at him when you asked, and he didn’t look at you when he answered.

“I’d only heard good things about you, and I had only seen good things from you. It seemed worth a shot.”

“What were you hoping for?”

“Everything.”

You didn’t know what that meant. You weren’t sure if he was satisfied with what he’d gotten, or if he was waiting for more. You weren’t sure how much more he wanted. That being said, his eyes were very blue, his mouth was turned down with exhaustion, and his hands were playing with a loose thread on your pants.

You wanted everything.

You kissed him, bracing your hands on his knees. He didn’t hesitate before responding, slow and cautious. His hands came up to cup your cheeks, and he sighed into your mouth.

“I wasn’t trying to ask for that,” he said, pecking your lips one more time. His hands stayed on your jaw, brushing along the curve of it like it was something to be studied.

“No,” you agreed. “But I wanted to give it.”

That earned you a half smile, and his eyes were brightening. “I don’t think that’s what I’m aiming for with the interviewer.”

“Do what you have to do, babe.”

He grinned, and he leaned in again.

 

“You know what I need? Somebody to make out with. Right now.”  
  
“Y/N, you do realize that you don’t need to tell us every time you kiss Race, right? We don’t want to know. We’ve seen too much.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have talked so much about it before, then. You’ve made your bed - it’s time to lie in it. Race, get in here.”


	52. The Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi! Can you do a Mush one where he's trying to ask the reader out but reader being so scared and shy says no. Even when it tries to be more obvious of the fact he likes them, they keep on saying no. Mush gets kind of mad because he's frustrated so reader just blurt out "i'm scared of you" or something like that and well just fluff and stuff at the end :) Thank you so mush (pun) if you do it!”

You weren’t sure why the majority of the people in the cafeteria before school weren’t there to eat breakfast, but that’s certainly how it looked when you surveyed the tables for your friends. Somebody else had gotten to your usual table first, but you were sure your people were there somewhere.

If they weren’t, there would be words.

Across the lunchroom, your eyes caught on a face. You registered the way that face lit up at the sight of you before you registered whose face is was. Your stomach swooped with recognition before you consciously had his name.

Mush.

You grinned when he stood up and waved you over. 

“Albert missed his bus, so we lost the table,” he explained when you got to the table that gave you a painfully direct view of the sun rising.

“Friggin’ Albert,” you sighed.

A few of the guys reached over to swat at Albert, who didn’t bother fighting back. “I overslept,” he sighed. “Don’t act like you haven’t done the same thing.”

“We aren’t in charge of saving the table,” you scolded. 

He flipped you off. You grinned, but Mush crumpled up a napkin to throw.

“My hero,” you crooned.

Breaking off a piece of his Poptart for you, he gave an insincere grin. “Anything for you.”

“Any big plans for the night?” Usually you would all go to see his football games together on Friday nights, but the end of the season brought a wave of freetime that none of you knew what to do with.

“Nah,” he said. “You?”

You shrugged. Homework, maybe. You didn’t want to say so and sound like That Party Pooper, but it was nice to get homework out of the way early so you could have quiet Sundays. “Party of one, I guess. I’ve got a date with Stranger Things.”

Mush gave a heavy swallow, and your eyes narrowed. He was making The Face. Crutchie pointed out The Face when Mush saw you in his spare football jersey on Friday nights. Jack mentioned it in regards to how Mush looked when you made jokes during presentations. People would laugh, you would smile, and ‘Mush falls apart.’

You should not like The Face. It was a blatant painting of feelings, and you had been trying to find ways to kindly kill his feelings since the school year started. Senior year brought college talks. College applications. The slow, certain separation from your friends in anticipation of leaving each other behind. Dating somebody who made you want to stay would only make things harder.

“Speaking of,” he began, “maybe I could crash? I’d bring pizza and popcorn.”

You could say yes. You wanted to go out with him - you would have said yes any other year. This year was a death sentence for relationships, so while you could say yes, you shouldn’t.

“That’s a great idea,” you said brightly. “Hey! Guys!” You bellowed down the table, and everybody turned to look at you. “Stranger Things marathon at mine. Mush is bringing pizza, so you’d better bring money to pay him back.”

Some of the guys said yes, some of the guys said no, and disappointment etched itself into Mush’s face.

 

 

“Truth or dare, Y/N?”

“Truth,” you said. Race’s nose was still running from eating a handful of crushed red pepper, so you felt like playing it safe.

“Who do you have a crush on?” Henry singsonged the words, managing to sound like a middle schooler in the process.

Your eyes darted over to Mush on their own accord. He sat up from his slouch on the couch, and his eyes were focused on the way your hands were folded on your lap. You dug your nails into your palms, hoping that your face was blank of emotion.

You had been quiet for too long.

You forced a laugh. “Geez, way to get creative, Hank.”

He wrinkled his nose at the nickname, no doubt hating his father for calling him that when you all arrived at his house. “Classics are well-known for a reason.”

“Ugh. Juvenile,” you sighed.

You couldn’t say Mush.

Lying was more juvenile than the question was.

“Ben Wyatt,” you said smoothly. “I’d arm wrestle Leslie Knope for him.”

There were some sighs of disappointment from around the room.

“You’d lose,” Jack said. “Leslie is a powerhouse.”

“For Ben Wyatt,” you said honestly, “I think I’d stand a chance.”

You pretended not to notice how long it took Mush to get a water refill. You pretended not to be guilty, and you pretended that you didn’t regret not saying his name.

You had been pretending too much lately, and it was taking too much of a toll. With your luck, you’d ruin things with Mush even though you hadn’t dated him at all.

 

 

Mush grinned at the end of the commercial for some new action movie. “That looks awesome.”

“Yeah, it looks alright.”

“We should see that,” he said eagerly. “You and I can go opening weekend.”

You bit your lip. Nope. Bad idea. Not an outright date request, but close enough that he may get his hopes up. “I’m sure the guys would love that! Finch is all about movies with people punching each other.”

“Actually, I was thinking -”

“I’ll put it in the group chat,” you powered on. You grabbed your phone and typed it out quickly, ignoring the frustrated look on Mush’s face.

 

 

“You look really nice today,” Mush told you.

“Thanks.” You brushed the words off, knowing that you would get flustered if you focused too much on them. 

“No, really,” he insisted. He seldom let you get away with sidestepping compliments, and it was simultaneously the best and worst thing he could do. “That sweater makes your eyes pop.”

“That’s a terrifying image, thanks.”

He gave a surprised snort of laughter. “Gross. Kind of an interesting mental image, though. Don’t deny it.”

You grinned. “What’s the sweater doing? Squeezing too tight?”

“That sweater squeezes you just right,” he blurted, and averted his eyes in obvious horror. You thought you heard him whisper a small ‘Jesus Christ,’ but you couldn’t be sure.

“Thanks,” you said again, and this time it wasn’t insincere at all.

He inched his chair a little closer to yours, and you moved farther away under the guise of pulling a notebook out of your backpack. He was not fooled, if the slump of his shoulders was indicative of anything at all.

 

 

“Y/N,” Mush said quietly, “I’m getting tired of this.”

“Of what?” You frowned down at the physics lab the two of you had finished. When you finished early, the two of you would use crayons to decorate the back. You had done it all semester, but if he didn’t want to - “You don’t have to help, if you don’t want to.”

“What? No.” He gripped his red crayon tighter. “I’m talking about this thing with us.”

“Okay,” you said. “Is there something specific?”

He gestured between the two of you. “This - this almost. If you don’t want to date me, that’s fine. I really thought that you’d know I would get over it. But don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m getting at, and don’t let me think that maybe you’ll say yes the next time.”

Your throat went dry, and it became impossible to swallow. He was right - you had known what he was doing. You had known that he knew that. Still, it was painful to have him call you out on it.

“I’m sorry,” you said. You reached over, squeezed his hand once, and let go. “I was being a jerk.”

“Do you want to go out with me?” There was no hope in his voice this time, and his eyes were tired.

You said nothing. You didn’t want to lie, and to tell him the truth would be unfair.

“Y/N, please answer. I’ll take whatever you say, but you have to say something.”

Silence.

His brow furrowed, and it was possibly the first time he had looked truly angry at you. “Y/N, I swear to God -”

“No,” you snapped back. You weren’t angry, but you were cornered. “No, I will not date you. I am scared to date you, so I won’t. Don’t ask anymore.”

Mush pursed his lips, started to speak, and pursed them again. “Okay,” he finally said. “Okay, I know that I said I’d accept your answer, but I think I’ll need a little more than that.”

“Nope. That’s all there is.”

“No. Nononononono. You don’t get to call me scary to date, and leave it there,” he said.

“I didn’t call you scary,” you argued. “I called myself scared.”

“What’s the difference?” The weariness was gone now, and though there wasn’t hope, there was something. Not his signature Face, maybe, but something that made you think that he wouldn’t lay down and accept your answer after all.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to be unhappy about it.

“We only have one college in common,” you said.

“What?”

“The colleges we applied for - we only shared one. I don’t want to do long distance. I don’t want either of us to sacrifice things to make it work with each other.”

His lips quirked into half a smile. “You have to do that no matter how close you are.”

“But it would be harder,” you argued. “It would be hard, and you’re worth the work, but I don’t want things to get ugly and fail.”

“Any relationship can fail!” He was half laughing now. Half amused, half confused. “If you don’t do something because it might not work out, you’ll never do anything.”

“But this -”

“Do you like me?”

“Yes,” you said in a small voice.

“Good. I like you too,” he said. A hint of The Face came back, and his eyes were bright. “Do you think that there’s a chance - no matter how small - that we could make things work? That you’d want to make things work?”

“Yes,” you said, and smiled a little. Of course he was going to talk you into dating. Or course you were going to fall for it. You weren’t sure why you had thought there was any other way, but it was clear that there wasn’t.

“Has being scared of something ever changed the situation?”

“No,” you sighed.

“So let’s do this,” he urged. He didn’t grab your hand, no, that would be too forceful. He would never corner you in a way that truly made it impossible to escape. He did, however, put his hand near yours on the table. Near enough for you to touch him, if you spread your fingers a little. “Let’s try this out. I know that it might not work, but maybe it will. I think that you’re worth the risk, Y/N.”

You sighed, pushing your hair back. It was an exasperated sigh, a fond sigh. A surrender sigh. “Alright, Mush. You’ve worn me down. Let’s go out. Nobody else there, and no excuses.” You shifted your hand over and squeezed his fingers.

He beamed. “Awesome. If anybody can handle distance, it’s us.”

“And we don’t know that we’ll have to,” you said. It was a reminder for both of you, really. “We haven’t gotten acceptance letters yet. We might be at the same school.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said.

“So, what’s the plan for the date?”

“I’ve given you plenty of options,” he smirked. “Your turn.”

You smacked his hand, standing to turn in the lab. “Blow me away, Mush. Make this worth my while.”

“You’re dating me. That’s worth it, and then some.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but were inclined to agree.


	53. Beach Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey so wow you are amazing, can I get a Crutchie morris x reader where all the newsies go to the beach and uh feelings get revealed? U know I love that swimmer!crutchie ❤️❤️❤️”

“You know, I thought it was a good idea to come to the beach before school started up again,” Jack said doubtfully while everybody gazed out over the sand and the water.

“So did everybody else in New York,” Katherine finished.

The beach was packed. If you had only come with a half dozen friends, it would have seemed less daunting, but bringing a group of friends the size of a small country made it a little more difficult to get situated.

“We could go somewhere else,” you suggested. “Maybe there’s a nice little beach that nobody else knows about.”

Jack hummed thoughtfully. “I dunno. We don’t know where it is, either. We might blow the entire day looking for a nice spot.”

“Not like there’s one here,” you mumbled. “Every inch of sand is taken.”

“We’ll just have to take the water,” Race said. He grinned, beach ball under one arm. “This’ll be a great day.”

You glanced at Crutchie, who appraised the beach. He was a phenomenal swimmer - arguably the best in the group. He would be fine in the water. Getting him to the water was the hard part. Sand didn’t make the sturdiest ground for somebody who was unsteady on his feet already. If he thought it was too crowded for him to move around safely, that would be the end of it.

He looked back at you, hair blowing a little in the breeze. He looked at you, then at your friends, and finally picked up his beach bag. “What are we waiting for? We aren’t getting any younger.”

 

 

At the community pool, your younger self liked pretending to be a shark. You would swim as close to the surface as possible, trying to stick something - your back, a hand, the top of your head - out of the water to be a fin. Nobody was safe from the shark in the water, least of all the kids you swam with.

You had known almost everybody since you were children. You had known Jack when his mom left, Race before he started smoking, Mush when his words slurred because his front teeth took ages to come in. You had known them all, and there was something surreal about trying to reconcile who they had been with the near-adults you swam with now.

Albert could lift you onto his shoulders without any trouble.

Katherine, who had still been coltish and gawky when you first met her, was now lovely in a way that Jack (and some of the others, let’s be real) unabashedly admired.

It was Crutchie, in your opinion, that had changed the most. He had been wiry and small as a kid, but joining the swim team had filled him out in a way that drew the eyes of many beach goers. He drew your eyes, but he had for ages. 

You were standing off to the side, watching Mike sneak pieces of seaweed into the pockets of Ike’s swimtrunks. You grinned, smothering a laugh with your hand, when fingers latched onto your hips. You jumped, glaring behind you at an unrepentantly grinning Crutchie.

“Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water,” he said. He hadn’t let go yet, and you held onto his forearms to keep him steady while he floated.

“I thought Jaws would go after somebody else. Somebody deeper.”

“I wanted the tastiest looking person in the water.”

You laughed. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Are you not flattered?” He let go of you to float on his back. Your sides were cold without him there, but the view made your cheeks warm enough to make up for it.

Christ, a beach day was either the best idea or the worst idea, and you couldn’t decide which.

“I’m not sure that’s the connotation I usually look for,” you said doubtfully.

He gave you an exaggerated once over. “I stand by it.”

You put a hand on his face and pushed it into the water, and he spluttered out a laugh before retreating.

 

 

“You don’t have to sit with me, you know.”

You turned your head to squint at Crutchie, but he had his closed eyes pointing at the sun. “I’m not babysitting you.”

“I never said you were.” He flipped onto his stomach so he could look at you. Sand was scattered across his face, so you reached over to wipe it away. “I’m just saying that if you’re here because you think you should be, you can go hang out with the others.”

Some of the guys were playing volleyball, others throwing a frisbee. You thought that Finch, Katherine, Jack, and Albert were still having chicken fights in the water. You would probably have fun if you went to join them, but the heat of the day made you lazy.

“Mmm. No, I’m good here.” You had borrowed Finch’s sunglasses, and you were fully dry. It was the perfect day to go to the beach, crowded or not. 

You really hadn’t decided to stay with your stuff because Crutchie settled next to you. He was a perk, but you would never do anything to make him feel like he was a pity project. He wasn’t, and you thought that he knew that during the times when he wasn’t on uneven footing.

“If you don’t reapply sunscreen, you’ll fry,” he said fondly.

“‘m fine,” you mumbled. You thought that you could fall asleep here, laying on your stomach.

“You’ll look like a leather couch when you get old. Be careful going to Art Van.”

“Mmm.” Something cold hit your back, and your eyes flew open. “What are you doing?”

“Putting on sunscreen,” he said. “If you won’t do it, I’ll do it for you.” He started to rub it in, and your eyes flickered shut again. You were wide awake, but your body turned to jelly under his hands.

“You don’t have to.” It was a weak protest, and you knew it.

“I want to,” he sighed. “Just stay still.” After a few minutes, he made a sound of approval. “If you don’t move, you won’t burn.”

“Want me to do you?”

“Yes, but not like that,” he teased. He settled back down, close enough that his foot pressed against yours. You opened your eyes, and saw that he was looking back at you.

“Careful,” you yawned. “You’re half naked. I can’t control myself. Those gosh darn hormones, man. They getcha.”

“If I could control myself touching you, I’m sure you’d survive.”

“Mmm. You’re a man of discipline. I’m weak to the temptations of the flesh.”

“Prove it,” he said.

You frowned - treat it as a joke, or take a leap of faith?

Compromising the two, you grabbed his hand and pressed a brief kiss into it.

He gave a bark of laughter. “You’re right. You’re so promiscuous.”

“Don’t doubt me.” You settled back onto your towel. “Beat that, Crutch.”

He groaned. “Now you’ve turned it into a competition. I have to sink to your level.” Despite his protestations, he pecked the tip of your nose, breath feathering across your face in the process.

“I think we both know who won, here,” he said smugly. His cheeks were pink, but you couldn’t remember if he had been burning before.

“No,” you scoffed. Stepping a little closer to the figurative ledge, you leaned in and kissed his cheek, just at the corner of his lips. He was definitely blushing when you pulled away, but he glowed with it. “Whatcha gonna do now?”

He didn’t hesitate before lunging in to press his lips against yours. His teeth clicked against yours, and it didn’t help when you gave a snort of laughter. Despite the awkward beginning, his lips were warm and soft when you settled into him. There was a little sand scratching your cheeks, it was really too warm for so much contact, and the towel got twisted underneath you - in short, it was perfect in its imperfection.

“Apparently Jaws didn’t get the memo that he isn’t allowed on land.” You reached up to brush sand off his face again, and he grinned.

“Tastiest thing on land - confirmed,” he announced.

“See, that still sounds weird. I dunno.”

Crutchie reached down to adjust the towel, though it was so covered in sand that it hardly helped. The smile on his face grew dopier by the second, and you suspected that yours wasn’t any better. “Maybe if I keep saying it -”

“Don’t you dare.” You kissed him again, and though his hands rested on your hips again, yours wandered beyond his forearms.


	54. Intruders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “hi!! i was wondering if you could please write something where race or jojo and the reader and best friends and they’re neighbors and sometimes they sneak out to see each other at night and like just fluff please? also you’re such an amazing writer and your stories are always just 10/10”

“JoJo, it’s time for you to go to bed.”

“Mom,” he said, dismayed, “I’m seventeen. I think I should be old enough to stay up past ten.”

“You can,” she said. “When it isn’t a school night.”

“Mom! We’re playing Monopoly!”

You grinned at the exchange. “If you make us quit now, the fires of rage will fade. I won’t care about all of the hotels he’s buying. One more hour?”

She shook her head, lips creeping into a smile. “Y/N, it’s time for you to go home. I don’t want to get any angry calls from your parents.”

You grumbled, reaching past JoJo to grab your things. You flashed one hand behind your back four times on the way out his bedroom door, and he brightened.

You half jogged across down the sidewalk to get to your building. You and JoJo had windows facing each other; his room sometimes felt like an extension of your own. When you were a kid, there were definite “You Belong With Me” messages going on. Once you got phones, the notebooks were rendered unnecessary.

Twenty minutes later, once his light was out, you crept down your fire escape. You climbed up his, knocked on his window, and grinned when he pulled the curtains aside. He always left the window open for you, but it seemed more polite to let him welcome you in.

“Long time, no see,” you said.

“Is the rage still smouldering?”

“That’s my secret,” you said. “I’m always angry.”

“If you Hulk out,” JoJo said, “I’ll make you clean my room.”

“I would rather jump out the window.”

“If you would rather commit suicide than clean, you’ll make a lousy spouse.” He snorted when you stuck your tongue out at him, and rolled the dice.

He won the game. You didn’t Hulk out, but you did throw a candy wrapper on his floor. 

“Feel my wrath, De La Guerra.”

“I’m shaking in my boots,” he said, and threw the wrapper at you while you ducked out the window.

 

 

“It’s cold,” you hissed. “Let me in faster next time.”

“Don’t come over when it’s snowing, then,” he whispered back.

You would continue coming over when it snowed, and he would continue letting you in. There was no point pretending otherwise.

“What’s up?” He was in his pajamas already, and his hair was mussed. Maybe he had been sleeping already, you thought guiltily. A corner of your heart soaked in the sight of him like this, sloppy and soft around the edges.

He smiled at you, and your edges went soft too.

“Oh,” you stumbled. What was up? “Oh, I’m just stuck on the math homework. What did you get on number six?”

He pulled out his homework and you scanned the sheet. You hadn’t been having trouble. It was good to know you’d gotten the same answer, though. 

“Awesome, thanks. See you tomorrow.”

“Wait, was that it?” JoJo’s lips twitched, amused. “You’re going home now?”

“Yeah,” you said. “That was all.”

“Important business,” he said. His eyes were still soft, but there was no sleep left. 

“Yeah,” you said again. 

You really had to stop coming over here uninvited. It made your chest do wonderful, terrible things.

 

 

“Juliet,” you called. “Is Nurse still standing guard?”

If JoJo was surprised to see you, he didn’t show it. He waved you in, still in his date clothes. “Couldn’t wait until morning? Or text like a normal person?”

You scoffed. “You would have been disappointed if I’d done one of those.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, smiling sheepishly.

“Tell me everything.”

It was awfully self destructive of you to do this - hearing every detail about dates your crush went on with other people was painful. It was worse to imagine it, so you always asked.

He shrugged. “It was fine. Nothing special.”

“Really?” There was a wave of both relief and disappointment. You wanted JoJo to be happy, but not with somebody else.

“Yeah,” he said. “You know how Romeo is about setting people up - if they have a pulse, they belong together.”

You grinned. “True that.”

“Wanna watch Emperor's New Groove?”

Yes, absolutely. Anything to give you an excuse to stay. You crawled onto his bed, settling with your arm pressing against his.

“You should have brought snacks,” he commented.

“You’re the host.”

“You’re the intruder.”

“You would have invited me over anyway,” you said, settling in.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I would have.”

He reached over your shoulder to grab the water bottle he kept on his bedside table, and when he put it back, he left his arm behind you. 

A bad date, but not a bad night.

 

 

You crept to his windowsill on Valentine’s Day to put a box of chocolate in his room. He shared it with you when he invited you over for a movie night.

Neither of you had dates, and something about it felt like sneaking around.

 

 

You paused, suddenly terrified, when you saw that the window was closed. Late May was not a time for closed windows, not if JoJo thought you would come over. This was a statement. 

You were rejecting that statement.

You slid the window open and tumbled through, movements inhibited by your finery.

JoJo sat on his bed, unsurprised and unhappy to see you. “I should have locked it, huh?”

“I’m here to woo you,” you said in an attempt at humor. “Doesn’t everybody like having royalty breaking into their houses? It works in fairy tales.”

“If this was a fairy tale, you would have let me run away.”

“If this was a fairy tale,” you said with a crooked smile, “I definitely would have come after you. True love always wins. Or true lust. Whatever floats your boat.”

“If this was a fairy tale, you would have been in love with me already,” he said, and you winced.

“Jo -”

“Don’t,” he said. His face was void of all humor, and you wondered if you had made a mistake coming here; made a mistake letting him leave Prom at all.

You had not been real dates, and you would stand by that. You had agreed to go together as an afterthought, and real dates were never afterthoughts. Since you were going as friends, of course you said so to people who asked.

JoJo had deflated more and more as the evening progressed. Yeah, Prom was overrated - it was supposed to be a night of bad dancing, food that was eaten too fast, and clothes that looked awesome and weren’t that comfortable. Fine. You had expected the company to be good, though, so it was baffling to both the cause and the receiver of JoJo’s unhappiness.

He left early, and he didn’t tell you he was going. Now, standing in his bedroom, you wondered if you had made a bad call in coming over. You’d never truly upset him before, so this was uncharted territory.

“You’re mad,” you said.

“No. I’m upset, but not mad,” he sighed. He didn’t look at you, so you couldn’t tell how true that was.

“It’s my fault,” you offered.

“Yeah.”

“That’s all I’ve got,” you said. “I don’t know the rest of it.”

JoJo sighed again, long and slow. It made him seem older, though the slightly too long arms of his suit jacket counteracted it. “Tonight didn’t go how I expected it to go.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“I had this entire mental image,” he began. “This was supposed to be, like, the first official date. The one that makes us go on a bunch of others, right? It seemed like we were heading that way anyway, but then you were practically yelling from the rooftops that we weren’t dates -”

“You said, and I quote, ‘since neither of us have a date, we might as well go together. It’ll be good for pictures and slow dances.’”

“I was trying to keep it cool,” he said, exasperated.

Your lips edged into a smile, but you narrowed your eyes at him. “I’ve seen you naked through the window, Jo. It’s too late to be cool.”

“You shouldn’t be peaking over here, and you know it.”

“You left the window wide open!”

He waved your comment off, half smiling back at you. “I’m always cool.”

“If you were, you wouldn’t have been scared to just ask me out.”

It would have changed everything if he had. You would have stood closer during slow dances, and you might have moved his hands down to your hips instead of your waist to see if he’d make a move on his own. You would have held his hand, and when people said that the two of you looked good together, you could have agreed wholeheartedly instead of trying to seem happy when you told them that it wasn’t like that.

Prom could be fun with a friend-date, but it would have been so much better if JoJo had been a real date.

“So what you’re saying is,” he said, “you would have said yes if I’d asked you for real.”

“Yes.”

“Even if I had seemed super lame?”

“Especially then,” you said, and he smiled.

“It’s a little late for that,” he said regretfully.

You checked your phone. “For Prom, yeah, but not for the after-party.”

He perked up a little. “At Race’s - I totally forgot about it.”

“Care to escort me?”

He stood, straightening his tie. “This worked out perfectly - now you were the one to ask me, so you were the one to seem like a desperate loser.”

“You were the one that was too scared to ask, so I’m pretty sure you’re the loser. I’m the person with the guts to go after what I want.” 

He frowned when you backed toward the window. “We can use the door, you know. We aren’t sneaking around.”

“I’m no coward - I exit through windows.”

“Royalty doesn’t have to leave through windows,” he pointed out.

“I’m cool royalty. I do cool things.” You climbed outside and waited. “Are you coming?”

He rolled his eyes and stepped through, grinning all the while. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

Of course you did - it was about time you snuck him out instead of sneaking in.


	55. Slow Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “okay, 3 prompt words for a character of your choice: sunflowers, footloose, rain (try to include them all!) on your mark, get set, go!”
> 
> (I loved this prompt. Race x Reader for the win.)

“You and Race are ridiculous,” Albert snorted. “Insane.”

You blinked at him, eyes squinted to keep the rain out. You wished that you’d brought an umbrella to the cross country meet, but the weather app had betrayed you. Shocker. “What do you mean?”

“This whole circling-each-other thing. Like, you have a massive crush on him. We get it. Tell him, and get out of the rain. You’ll only see him run for, like, two seconds.”

“It’ll be a glorious two seconds,” you said with a grin.

“Good God.”

“Look,” you said. “He knows. He knows that I like him. I’m not here to prove a point. I’m just here for him.”

“Fine. Then he needs to grow a pair and tell you that he likes you back.” Albert made a face and shook his head, muttering something about water getting in his ear.

“I know that he likes me back.”

You saw a familiar running form in the distance - all fluidity and sure steps. His head was ducked, but there was no doubt in your mind that it was Race.

You let out an ear-shattering whoop when he jogged past, and he shot you a swift grin. There it was. An unholy amount of time, standing out in the rain, all for a few heartbeats of watching Race run by. 

It was worth every second.

“Wow,” Albert said sarcastically. “Riveting. I’m sure that your poor, love-stricken heart is satisfied now. I’ll bet this all seems worth it.”

“If this is so bad, what are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Moral support.”

“For who?”

“Everybody, apparently,” he said, and you grinned.

 

 

Albert’s complaints about you and Race were not totally off base; the two of you clearly liked each other. The two of you knew about the other’s feelings, and neither of you denied it to your friends.

You just hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about it yet. There was something comfortable about the purgatory you rested in, and it seemed like he felt the same way. 

“I don’t know why girls always want to have sunflowers in their senior pictures,” he told you. “It’s stupid.”

“I dunno. Sunflowers are nice.” You were only half-listening, but that was all Race was expecting from you. There was a knot of tension between your shoulders as you reached across the table to glue something to a posterboard. Race could have helped - his long arms gave him an infinite reach - but he was to busy frowning at his Instagram feed.

“They’re the worst, Y/N. They are the most deceptive of all flowers.”

You bit back a grin. “How’s that?”

“They’re too tall. They’re clearly just pretty trees, and none of us talk about it.” He held his phone out, showing you a girl your age next to flowers that towered above her.

“I don’t think that’s how trees work.”

“That’s how spy trees work,” he corrected, looking at your progress. “That looks great.”

You nodded, a self-satisfied smile settling in. “Yeah, it’ll do.” Then, with a jab to his ribs, “no thanks to you.”

“You are a hero,” he said solemnly. “A hero and delight.”

“You are useless. Nothing more than eye candy.”

“And you have a sweet tooth,” he said. He sat on the edge of the table, ignoring the way it groaned under his weight. “I wanna order a pizza. Can I eat it here?”

“Are you planning on sharing?” 

“Are you willing to pry it from my cold, dead hands?” He was already ordering online, and you knew that he was ordering what you liked best. 

“If I must,” you sighed. “A crying shame to kill you now, though. So much potential.”

Race gave you a grim nod, eyes alight. “At least I’ll die looking good.”

“You look incredible,” you agreed, smiling when he bopped you with his foot.

You wondered if he was ever tempted to kiss you when you joked with him like this. When he complimented you, did his chest feel fit to burst under the nerves of it, or did it come naturally?

He asked you to bring the board to school the next day, and he squeezed your hand when you grumbled about it. He didn’t let go, not until the pizza arrived, and you wondered if he ever imagined following through.

 

 

“Somebody should put on music,” Jack said.

Race materialized by the AUX cord, inhuman in his speed.

Despacito blasted from the speakers, and a groan rose over the room. 

“Race, please,” JoJo pleaded. “I can’t do this. Not again.”

“I’m not strong enough,” Romeo said.

“You guys are the worst,” Race said. “Fine. I’ll go old school.”

Gasolina began, and though numerous shoulders drooped, no battle was waged.

The night began with Cards Against Humanity, but it didn’t take long to dissolve into the chaos that was inevitable amongst old friends. Some were competing to see who could fit the most pretzels in their mouths. Mush, who had been trying to discreetly watch an episode of Parks and Recreation on his phone, now had a small crowd watching with him. He was continually shushing them, but looked happy nonetheless.

You went to the kitchen to find the candy bars that you knew were hidden behind the marshmallows. Albert had never bothered changing his hiding spots, though you had known about them for years.

Race followed, musing about what songs he should play. “Have you memorized the Fergalicious rap? Because nothing would be cooler than the two of us whipping that out.”

You grinned, tossing him a Butterfinger. “We could always, I don’t know, just relax with our friends.”

“Or we could prove that we’re the superior friends.”

“Ah, yes,” you teased. “You and I, gods among men. We must prove it to them, for fear of losing our power.”

“I’m so happy you understand,” he said. “That’s why you and I falling madly in love was always inevitable. Okay - here’s what I’m thinking for choreography -”

You didn’t blush at his words. You didn’t melt, or fill with an overwhelming desire to kiss him. You smiled at him, and though Race said nothing else about it, you saw the way his lips ticked upward in response.

 

 

“This movie is the worst,” you said.

“If Peter Quill thinks it’s the greatest movie of all time,” Race said firmly, “it’s the greatest movie of all time.”

You wrinkled your nose. If Peter Parker thought that Footloose fell short of the greatest, then it definitely wasn’t the greatest. “That Kevin Bacon angry-dance scene makes me uncomfortable, and I have no idea why.”

You had wanted a Marvel marathon. Race had wanted a ‘less predictable’ marathon. You supposed that it meant that he wanted to have something out of the ordinary to tell the boys about when the weekend was up, and you had to admit that the ingenuity was staggering.

That being said, a marathon of movies referenced by Marvel films was not as cool as it sounded.

The two of you had plowed through Pinocchio, Alien, and Empire Strikes Back. When Race pulled out Footloose, you had cringed. You didn’t love the movie, and he knew it, but he insisted that it was a necessary addition to the marathon.

Maybe it was. That wouldn’t keep you from complaining.

You spread out across the couch, a satisfied groan escaping when you settled in. Race, adjusting with your feet in his lap, started rubbing his thumbs along the arch of your feet.

“I like these socks,” he commented absently.

“I’ll buy you a matching pair for your birthday,” you said.

“Cute,” he crooned. “Matching socks is such a statement.”

“I don’t even ship Kevin Bacon and the pastor’s kid,” you said, eyes back on the TV. “They don’t have any chemistry.”

“Chemistry is stupid.”

“Oh?”

“Seriously,” he insisted. “Chemistry is an excuse people use when they aren’t interested in somebody - a roundabout way of saying that they want to date somebody they think is hotter. It isn’t real.”

“What,” you said, “so people shouldn’t be looking for a spark, or something?”

“They should be looking for something real.”

“Who gets to decide what’s real?” You tilted your head to rest it against the side of the sofa, watching him carefully. 

“Anybody. You get to decide what’s real; it doesn’t just sneak up on you.”

You weren’t sure that you agreed; not entirely. Sometimes reality arrived without you noticing. Race certainly had; you had been half in love with him before you realized that you were capable of having a crush on him at all.

You and Race were not blazing lovers. There was nothing explosive about the two of you. It was all slow burn, long-suffering and inevitable.

You pulled your feet off his lap. “Are we real?”

He looked at you, surprised. “Of course we are.”

“Is there a spark?”

“Dunno,” he said. “There’s just us. That’s enough for me.”

“Why aren’t we dating, then?” You weren’t whining or accusing; it was just a question. A question that you always felt like you were always on the verge of knowing the answer to, but could never quite reach. “What are we waiting for?”

He considered. “Nothing. We just haven’t talked it through yet.”

“Should we?” 

“Date me,” he said, lips quirking around the edges. 

“Okay,” you said.

“Bomb.” He looked back to the movie, satisfied.

You gave a huff of laughter. “That’s it? That’s the big talk?”

“That’s all there is,” he said. “I like you. You like me. We’ve basically been dating for months, even if we didn’t say so. Now we’re dating, nothing ‘basic’ about it. What else is there?”

“I guess not,” you said. “There is something -”

You crawled over to his side of the couch and sat by him, leaning into his side. He put an arm around your shoulder.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” you said. Sitting like this didn’t make the movie any better, but it made the day into something wonderful all the same.


	56. Dress Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can you write fluff race x girlsie!reader where she like ruins her last pair or pants and then Katherine gives her an old dress and Race just gets so soft when he sees her for the first time ever in a dress”

“Race,” you hissed into the dark. “Racetrack Higgins, you wake up right now.”

He groaned. “Y/N, if the bell hasn’t rung yet, I’ll kill you.”

“I need your help.”

He reluctantly trudged to the bathroom with you, eyes bleary while he leaned against the sink. There was a flicker of panic on his face when he saw that you were only wearing a shirt and your undershorts, but he looked studiously at the ceiling. “Whaddaya want?”

It was early - all of the sky was dark. You had gotten up early to wash your clothes so you wouldn’t have to deal with all of the boys around, eyes hungry on you underthings. That had proven to be a good idea, since your last pair of pants had fallen apart in the sink.

“I need to borrow some of your pants,” you said, holding up the pathetic scraps of fabric.

His eyes narrowed. “Y/N, they won’t fit you.”

“I don’t care. I have to wear something.”

“You can’t walk around in my pants all day,” he insisted. He pushed off the sink, eyes calculating. “Gimme a second to think.”

You waited patiently. You were almost relieved to not be wearing his pants - it would feel a little strange. When you were younger, and your crush on him had been bewildering and new, you would steal his hat and wear it around. Though you really did need clothes to wear, you felt that wearing his pants now would be an updated version of taking his hat. 

“Alright,” he finally said. “Go to Katherine. She’s bound to have something old that’ll fit you.”

“How am I supposed to get there?”

“I’ll find somebody closer to your size and borrow their pants. You can give them back after,” he said. Part of you wanted to just keep somebody else’s pants, but none of you had much to spare. You wouldn’t feel right stealing somebody’s clothes when they needed them, and Race was probably right about Katherine. She had loads of dresses and skirts. She could surely spare one.

You waited in the bathroom for him to come back. When he did, his eyes latched onto your legs for one mortifying, invigorating moment. 

He cleared his throat. “I can tell Jack where you went. Better head out now, or you’ll miss the day.”

You nodded, cheeks burning. “Right. See you.”

 

 

You frowned at the dress Katherine laid out. “That ain’t old, Katherine.”

She ran her hands down the angles of it, grin wolfish. “Sure it is. It’s old, and it doesn’t fit anymore. It’ll look great on you.”

She was right about that last part, at least. The dress was the type of color you always admired in shop windows, and always thought would look just right with your skin and hair. That being said -

“I can’t take something nice,” you insisted. “It won’t be right.”

“Y/N, shut up and listen.”

Your teeth clicked together and your brows shot up.

“This is the one time you have the chance to look pretty for no reason,” she said. “For once in your life, you can do something out of character with no repercussions. I’m sure you can think of a reason to look nice, right?”

You gritted your teeth. You regretted telling her about your crush on Race; she was always pushing to make things happen. She insisted, on your birthday, that he would never have bought you a new set of shoelaces if he hadn’t liked you.

In the winter, her point was that he needed one blanket more than you needed two, but he always tried to bundle you up.

Today, it was that he would never have been so decent if it had been her in a state of undress.

“You know how he looks at girls,” she insisted.

“And he didn’t look at me like that! Not for long, anyway.”

She looked about ready to smack you. “Because he’s trying to be nice. He’s trying to be good around you. Why would he be like that, if he wasn’t trying to impress you?”

Race, impress you? It seemed a little late for that. You had known each other for too long to be impressive - there was only the truth to be had. Except, just maybe, if you could surprise him by looking so much better than he had ever imagined. Maybe Katherine was right; this was the chance to do something drastic. If she was right, and he actually wanted you, this would be a good time to make a move.

Katherine was an unstoppable force, and it seemed that you were not an immovable object.

“I want to give it back after today,” you said.

She scoffed. “Please. I have more than enough, and you have nothing at all. Take the clothes, or I’ll throw them out myself.”

“Fine,” you huffed. Still, you smiled. It really was a nice dress, and it was even nicer to imagine the guys losing their minds over you in it. You couldn’t remember the last time you hadn’t been smudged with dirt and patching up holes in your clothes.

“First things first,” Katherine said, nose wrinkling playfully. “You need a bath.”

 

 

The skirts swished while you walked to the square, and you thought you could understand why women felt so powerful in them. You thought that, if you held your head high enough, you could walk into any building without being questioned. You were used to invisibility; you had always been able to blend into shadows and dirty corners. This was a different, lighter invisibility - nobody noticed you because you looked exactly like all of the other women on the streets.

You felt good, but the good cheer was precarious. You were prepared for jeers from the boys, but even joking cruelty would probably put you off dresses for the rest of your life.

Romeo would probably flirt a little, acting as though he didn’t recognize you. 

Mush would tease you about needing a bodyguard now that people wouldn’t be able to take their eyes off you.

Race would - actually, you didn’t know what Race would do. Maybe he would brighten. Maybe he would melt. Maybe he would fall radically, madly in love with you. Maybe his eyes would cling to the curves that your trousers had always buried.

Maybe he would say nothing at all, and you would feel like more of a fool than ever. Hope was for suckers.

Jack was the first person to see you. His jaw softened for a second before he smiled, and you grinned back. 

“Don’t tell Kath,” he called across the street, “but that looks better on you than it did on her.”

A few of the guys turned, and you saw eyebrows raise and jaws drop.

You scoffed. “You’s a filthy liar, Jack.”

“True enough,” he said. “But you look great.”

Romeo told you that if he had known you were a girl, he would have called dibs years ago.

JoJo twirled you to see the skirts billow. 

Davey called you ravishing, and though you’d never heard the word before, you didn’t have to ask him what it meant to get the jist. It was written all over his face.

When you finally looked at Race, the tips of his ears were pink. His eyes were wide, and he looked caught somewhere between afraid and amazed.

You swallowed back a smile. “You’s looking awful pink, Higgins. Sunburn?”

“You look,” he croaked, and cleared his throat.

You raised an eyebrow, smile breaking through. This was it. This was the reaction you had been hoping for, and you didn’t feel like a sucker at all. “Yeah?”

He said nothing, at least until Albert elbowed him in the side. The redhead waggled his eyebrows, playfully eying you up and down.

Race took off his hat and mussed up his hair. “You look - I thought you were tanner than that.”

Finch guffawed, and you had to fight the urge to do the same. “It was dirt.”

A few of the others laughed too, and the scene dispersed. People bought papers, chatted while flipping through them, and goofed around while waiting for the crowds to swarm the streets.

You weren’t surprised when Race came up behind you, but your heart stuttered a little when he ran a hand over the fabric at your waist.

“That’s nice,” he said. “Soft.”

“Since when were you an expert on cloth?” You grinned at him, crossing your arms.

“I ain’t,” he said with a hint of a grin. “I’s an expert on the lady underneath.”

You snorted. “Really? I didn’t know that you were an expert on me.”

“I’s the only expert on you.”

“You wish,” you said, giving your hair an exaggerated flip. “There’s plenty of boys who’d be happy to learn about me.” You grinned at him, waiting for him to laugh, but all he did was tilt his head.

“Do you want any other boys to learn about you?” Race pulled out a cigar and lit it, eyes flickering shut with relief while he inhaled. 

“Not particularly,” you admitted, eying his face.

He smiled, and you were surprised to see that there was nothing smug about it. “That’s what I thought.”

“So? What’re you gonna do about it?”

He grabbed you by the waist, tugged you close, and looked deep into your eyes.

He was going to kiss you, you realized. It would be a little strange, surrounded by all of your friends, but you would be a fool to pull away now. You had been wishing that something like this would happen for so long.

He leaned it, you closed your eyes, and - he blew a puff of smoke in your face.

You spluttered. “Seriously?”

“As if I’d kiss you in front of the guys,” he scoffed. “Have you no sense of decency?”

Even so, he pressed his lips against your forehead. They were warm and soft, and you thought that it would be good enough. Good enough until later, at least, when the others would be gone and there was nothing decent about the way he smiled at you.


	57. Night Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okie, can you write some Albert Dasilva X Reader where they’re avoiding the bulls or Snyder by hiding in Medda’s theater and they accidentally get locked in and spend the night chatting until Albert like zones out staring at the reader’s lips, there’s a bit of tension, they end up admitting just how much they care about one another and it’s like super cute, however you wanna end it?”

“Down here,” he whispered, leading you through the cluttered halls behind the stage.

You looked back toward the light of the theatre, wincing. The lights had been off when you rushed through the door - Snyder must have come inside.

“Y/N.” Albert’s voice was sharp with fear. “C’mon.” He grabbed your hand, hooked your fingertips through his belt loop, and pulled you farther in.

The backstage was filled with old props, costumes, and furniture. You had never seen one of Medda’s shows before, but you would have liked to browse through the stuff under different circumstances.

“Where are we going?”

“We’s going to the - ouch, geez, watch out for the table leg - to the back exit. I think it’s through here.”

“You think?” You frowned at his words, but getting lost back here for a while was no worse than being sent to the Refuge. 

“You have any better ideas, genius?” 

You were tempted to let go of his trousers, leaving him alone in the dark. It was suffocating back here, made worse by the dust and dirt. If you had been confident in your ability to find your own way out, you would have left him. That would have fixed his attitude.

“Here it is!”

Albert had led you into what you thought was a closet at first glance, but had a door at the end. He grunted while he pulled the door open, and you could hardly breathe when he passed it on to you.

“Jesus,” you mumbled. You struggled through the doorway, wincing when the door slammed shut.

“I’ll be the one you’s praying to,” Albert said with relief, “when I get you out of here.”

“It’s your fault I was here in the first place,” you whispered back. You couldn’t hear Snyder anymore, but caution seldom made things any worse.

“You didn’t have to follow me,” he huffed.

Of course, you’d had to follow him. Albert said he was going home. He had walked the opposite direction. What had he expected you to do - ignore it? You’d followed him to the theatre, where he realized you’d come along while he snuck through an open door.

He argued with you, as usual, and told you to go home. You argued back, saying that if he was breaking into a building, he needed all of the help he could get. He told you he wasn’t breaking in, Snyder showed up, and Albert dragged you inside.

“If you aren’t going to tell me why you came here, I don’t have any choice,” you snapped back.

“It’s none of your business!”

Albert fumbled to get the door leading outside open. He grunted, and your eyebrows shot up. “Need a hand?”

“No,” he said. He exhaled shakily. “Actually, maybe.”

You stumbled to the door, wishing you had a candle. It was too easy to imagine something else being back here with you, even knowing there couldn’t be. You pushed the door, you pulled the door, and you punched it.

“I can’t open it,” you said. “It must be locked.”

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go back the way we came, and see if I can get it open from the other side.”

It was a little creepy to be back there alone. It was dark, and you had trouble identifying the shapes in the dark. The stuff was probably normal - brooms, ladders, set pieces, and the like - but it was easy to pretend otherwise when Albert wasn’t there.

As ridiculous as it was, you were almost happy about the position you were in. Being stuck in a theatre was not how you’d expected to spend your night, but it was better than what you had imagined while you followed him.

Maybe he’d gotten himself caught up in a bad crowd. You knew that it was common enough for older Newsies to get themselves in trouble when the money stopped flowing in.

Maybe - and this was objectively better, but emotionally shattering - Albert had started seeing somebody. Maybe he was sneaking off to a nice house to woo some lucky idiot. Al called you an idiot all the time, but it hadn’t seemed like a bad thing when you thought that there was still hope.

“Y/N?”

You shot to your feet, reaching a hand out. You could sort of see him, and it didn’t take long for him to grab you back. “Any luck?”

“No,” he sighed. “We’s locked in.”

“How were you planning to get out? Before, when you were coming in.”

He huffed out a sigh. “I was supposed to leave the door propped open. They lock when they close.”

“Why’d you close it, then?”

He smacked your arm. “I was in a hurry, idiot. I wouldn’t have been if you had just stayed home.”

You grinned, sheepish but unrepentant. “I wouldn’t have followed you if you hadn’t lied about where you were going. Spill.”

He hesitated, but eventually told you that Medda had taken him on as a custodian. He would come to the theatre after hours to clean. 

You frowned, though he couldn’t see it. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It just sounds stupid. Albert the janitor.”

“You’s the richest one of us, now,” you said. “If you don’t want us to make fun of you, pay us off.”

He laughed. “It doesn’t pay that well.”

The two of you had settled back against the wall, shoulders pressing together. When you had first leaned into him, you had said that you didn’t want to lose him in the dark. He hadn’t complained, so the entirety of your side was flush against his.

You were really, really happy he hadn’t been going to see somebody else.

“I don’t understand why you ran,” you said. “If this is legal, why are you hiding?”

“Because you followed me,” he said, defeated. “You shouldn’t be here, and anybody with half a brain knows it. If Snyder caught you, he’d lock you up before you could blink.”

You shifted uneasily. True enough. You weren’t supposed to be here, and Albert had risked his job to keep you from getting in trouble. “Sorry, Al. I shouldn’t have come.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t,” you sighed. “I just - I didn’t think.”

“Same as always,” he teased, and you felt his hand fumble for yours. He missed, but what he settled for was better; his hand landed on your thigh, and he squeezed it. “I don’t blame you.”

You closed your eyes, and though it was just as dark, it was less scary. “You should.”

“I can’t. Never could.”

You huffed out a smile. There was something funny about it - you were always quick to see where Albert was wrong. You never held it against him, but you knew where blame was due. Albert refused to see blame when you tried to take it.

“I was being stupid,” you admitted. “Like always.”

“If being stupid means that we get to spend time together, it can’t be that bad.”

“That’s sweet,” you crooned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were enjoying this.”

“If you aren’t careful,” he said, “I’ll make you start cleaning.”

Your mouth shut with an audible click.

You wished that there was a way to keep track of the time, but there were no windows. It made sense, since it would spoil the shows to see the progress of the sun, but you would have liked to see it now. Had it been hours? Minutes? Was Snyder still out there? You had a lot of questions, and most of them couldn’t be answered until morning.

There was one, however, that Al could answer.

“Why did you need a night job?” When you turned your head, your chin brushed against his shoulder. You didn’t pull back. “You already got a day one.”

“That’s just it,” he said. “I can’t be a Newsie forever. I thought I’d start this one, and maybe I’d start making enough to quit selling papes.”

“You can’t quit,” you said dumbly. The idea of getting up in the morning and not seeing Albert made your throat tighten and blood run cold.

“Why not?”

Good question. There was no good answer. “Because you’ll miss us too much.”

“I won’t be quitting my friends,” he scoffed. “Life ain’t like that.”

“You won’t have to talk to us anymore,” you argued. 

“I didn’t have to talk to you in the first place,” he pointed out.

“But it’ll be easier to just stop,” you said. You felt near panicking, and it was probably good that he couldn’t see your face. “It’ll take work to see us, and it’ll take nothing at all to never talk to us again.”

“It’s the other way around.”

“What?”

His hand, still on your thigh, started fidgeting. “It takes more work to not talk to you.”

“How’s that?”

“If I don’t think, I end up by you,” he said. The tone of his voice made you think that his face flamed red. “If I ain’t thinking about anything in particular, I end up thinking about you. If I leave the Newsies, I’ll always end up coming back.”

Your face was feeling pretty warm now, too. “That’s - is that a good thing?”

“Dunno. What do you think?”

It was a good thing there weren’t any windows. If he had been able to see you, you never would have been able to tell the truth.

You put his hand of yours, and it stilled against your leg. “I followed you because I thought you might be going to see somebody.”

“Who would I be - oh.”

“Oh,” you agreed. “It made me feel so sick, so unhappy, that I followed you. I thought I was losing you to somebody else, and I never had you in the first place.”

He swallowed audibly. “You really, really did.”

It was the perfect moment to kiss him. He angled himself toward you, the two of you leaned in - and totally missed each other’s lips. It was difficult, apparently, to kiss somebody you couldn’t see. Your mouth landed somewhere against his jaw, smashing into the shallow stubble. 

He breathed a smile against your face, and you fought down a laugh. You kissed his jaw again, gentler than before. 

“I don’t want you to stop talking to me,” you said. “Not ever.”

“I would never.”

“You’s going to have to visit. Every day.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else,” he said. You could hear the broad grin in his voice, and you wondered if he could hear yours.

“If you try to buy a pape from anybody other than me, I’ll trash the theatre. You’ll never finish cleaning it,” you said. A joke, of course, but he nodded.

“Reasonable.”

You kissed his jaw again, slowly pressing a path to his mouth. He was still smiling when you found it.


	59. Predictable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can I get uhhhh, finch soccer captain au where he likes the reader and she doesn't know”

“There are scouts coming this week to watch Finch play,” JoJo said, beaming. He clapped his team captain on the back. “He’s gonna get a scholarship offer, for sure.”

Finch rolled his eyes, but the way his shoulders straightened make you think he might believe it. “If I don’t mess it up, anyway.”

“You’ve never messed up,” you scoffed. “At soccer, anyway. Everything else, sure, but never soccer.”

“As if you’d know.” Finch flicked your forehead, grinning when you scowled. “You don’t know anything about soccer.”

“I know the only thing I need to,” you smirked. “That you make a lot of baskets.”

He gagged emphatically. “I think that I’m allergic to you, Y/N. I’m nauseous whenever you talk.”

“Stop talking to me, then.”

Finch did not stop talking to you, and it took more effort than it should have for you to ignore the meaningful looks JoJo gave you.

The trouble with being friends with Finch was that he wasn’t really friends with any other girls. Most people who saw the two of you together assumed that he liked you because of it - Liked you. You didn’t believe it for a second. 

“You’ll be coming to the game, right?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Do you want me to?”

“Of course,” Finch said. “Don’t I always?”

Yes, he did. “Food after?”

Yes, always. “Of course.”

“Alright, then.”

 

 

“We should skip the game tonight,” you told Finch. “We can eat a bunch of food instead.”

“We’ll be getting food after,” he said.

“Like, a lot of food. Just picture it - a couple extra hours of eating is so much better than running.”

He snorted, not looking up from his math worksheet. “You won’t be running at all.”

You snagged his eraser to clear a mistake. “Is that a no?” 

“Believe it or not, I’m going to have to pass. It’s almost like I need to be there for my team,” he said dryly.

“Chicken. You’re scared that you’ll like not playing.” You stuck out your tongue at him when he smirked.

“I’m not scared of anything.”

“Play hooky with me, then.”

You wondered what you would do if he took you up on it. He never would, of course, but what would it mean if he did? That you were a bad influence, of course, but would it be a date? Just two friends, hanging out?

“I’m scared of one thing,” he said.

You laughed. “Alright, Finch. I’ll go to your stupid game.”

“Maybe I’ll take off my shirt,” he teased. “Would that make it worth your while?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

He gave a startled laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do.”

He smiled for a long time after you went back to work, and it made it hard for you not to smile back.

 

 

Soccer wasn’t usually that exciting to watch. It was a lot of running; as impressive as that was, you were always zoning out and losing track of what was happening. You would only realize that it was happening when one of the guys would whisper that you were clapping for the wrong team.

“You spend a lot of money to come to these games,” Crutchie grinned. “I’d think that you would try harder to watch them.”

You shrugged. “We both know why I’m here.”

Just like everybody suspected that Finch liked you, everybody knew that you liked him. Everyone, it seemed, except Finch himself. He had never questioned why you came to his games, and he had never been bothered by the fact that you hardly cared about the sport. He was just happy that you went.

Despite your disinterest in the sport, you liked to watch Finch. His movements were quick and instinctual, almost always leading the team to victory. Of course he was the captain - following his lead was almost always the right call.

After the game, you waited by the school entrance for Finch to come out. You assumed that he was going to be talking to the scout for a while, but you hadn’t expected it to take so long. You were half tempted to leave before he got out, but the grin on his face when he arrived was worth the wait.

“They were impressed,” he said. His smile was savage; it was the closest he ever came to gushing.

“Are they giving you a full ride? Building a statue in your honor? Naming their kids after you?”

“We’ll see,” he said. He ran his hand through his short hair, as though it would change the way it fell. “They want to talk some more.”

“My boy,” you crooned. “All grown up.”

He straightened, looking down his nose at you. “I’ve been grown for a while.”

You gave a hum of irritation at his smirk, but it morphed into something close to a purr when he slung an arm over your shoulders. “My boy, acting like a child.”

“My girl, acting self-righteous,” he tutted. “How original.”

“We’re doing the same thing that we do every single week during the season. If you were looking for originality, you wouldn’t have invited me along.”

Finch, for all of his desire to be adventurous, liked structure. He liked a framework for everything he did, and you both knew it. Of course he had invited you along. You were an essential part of his framework.

“Come on, then,” he said with an unrepentant grin. “Let’s do something predictable.”

 

 

The guys, as usual, took the booth next to yours. You and Finch always went out to eat after games, but the guys always sat nearby. You sometimes teased them about it, saying that it would be easier to get Finch to go out with you if the posse wasn’t stalking the two of you.

They always threatened to ask Finch if he agreed, so you would shut up.

“I really don’t get what people see in Finch,” Race mock-whispered to you. You were several feet away, and his mouth was right by Finch’s ear while he spoke. “You know what they say about soccer players, and he’s the captain. That makes it, like, true times a hundred.”

“What do they say about soccer players?”

He gave emphatic spirit fingers. “C’mon, Y/N.”

You suspected that you knew where he was going with it, but the way Finch’s eyes got progressively narrower was too sweet to let alone. “No, you’ll have to spell it out for me.”

“They’re terrible with their hands, if you know what I mean.” 

You snorted, and laughed outright when Finch smacked him upside the head.

“I’ll show you bad with my hands,” he snapped, but his eyes danced. 

“No need,” Race crowed. “I see it every day.”

“I’ve never seen it,” you said.

“I’ll bet Finch wants you to feel it,” Albert said.

Finch flushed, taking a massive bite of his burger in lieu of answering. 

You watched him with raised brows. That wasn’t the sort of comment to be embarrassed by unless it was revealing something meant to be left alone. Your eyes flickered to the guys, who were snickering.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh.

Lips quirking, you put on the lightest voice you could. “Same.”

Finch choked a little, and Race reached over the back of the seat to pound on his back. 

“Thata girl, Y/N,” Romeo called. “Tell your man what you want.”

You laughed, wiggling your fingers.

“You guys are the worst,” Finch said. “I have more athletic ability in my pinky toe than any of you do in your entire bodies.”

“I don’t know what your kinks are,” Race said with a wrinkled nose, “but toes don’t usually help much. Poor Y/N.”

Finch scowled when you laughed, but the pink of his cheeks made his eyes look bright. He hardly looked away from you for the rest of the night.

 

 

“So,” you said when Finch parked in front of your house. “When are you supposed to talk to the college people again?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Soon.”

“God,” you sighed. It was half pleased, half nostalgic. “Can you believe that we’re old enough to be talking to colleges? I feel like I should still have nap time every day. I can’t go to college.”

“You can’t do both?”

“You’re right. I’m good at multitasking.”

Finch sighed and rested his head against the headrest. “That’s good. You’ll have to come to my games in college, too, so you’ll need to multitask.”

You gave a playful groan. “No, Finch, I can’t take anymore of this torture. I thought I was going to be getting away.”

“Never,” he said. “No, you’ll come to all of my games. You’ll be a soccer expert in the end.”

“That would be the biggest change of all,” you snorted. “What a twist.”

Finch laughed and twisted to face you. “I can think of a few bigger changes.”

“Oh?”

“I could quit soccer,” he said.

Finch leaned over the consol. You stilled, not pulling away, but not wanting to move toward him if you were misunderstanding his move.

“I could major in musical theatre,” he said. He spoke slowly and carefully, like he thought you would spook if he did anything sudden.

He braced one hand against the door behind you, and you closed the rest of the gap. His lips were still a little salty from the rush of the game; a somehow appealing flavor when it was on him. 

You kept one hand on the back of his neck when you pulled back a little. “Those would be pretty major changes,” you said, slightly strangled.

He hummed in agreement. “This wasn’t that surprising, though.”

“Nope. Predictable AF,” you grinned, and leaned in again.


	60. Better to Screw Than Get Screwed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sorry to request twice in two days but now that musical theater Finch is in my brain, could you have him and the reader be in Carrie the musical together as either Tommy and Sue or Chris and Billy?”

Some people get cast in a show because they love performing. Some love to develop characters. Some love the social aspect - spending hours with other actors every day, building something amazing together.

It seemed fitting, somehow, that the role of Billy Nolan would be given to somebody who had absolutely no love for musical theatre.

“I’m flattered that you’re so excited to be playing my boyfriend,” you said dryly. “Really.”

Finch frowned, sheepish, but unrepentant. “Look, it’s nothing personal. It’s not that it sounds like a bad - okay, no, it actually does sound like a bad time. But it isn’t you, Y/N. It’s being in the show.”

“If you drop out of Carrie, I’ll murder you.”

“I don’t think Chris is the murderer, but I could be wrong. I didn’t read the script too closely.”

You crossed your arms. He had come to the auditorium for the first day of rehearsals, but only to tell the choir teacher that he wasn’t sure he wanted to be in the show after all. You were blocking his path, but he wouldn’t stay for much longer if you weren’t convincing.

“Of course,” you sighed. “Typical.”

He froze, eyes narrowing. “What’s typical?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I was pleasantly surprised to see you committing to something for once in your life. I thought to myself, ‘self, look at how cool Finch is being. Isn’t it great that we can count on him to do exactly what he said he would do?’ But, well . . .” you trailed off, schooling your face into cool indifference.

“I feel like you’re manipulating me,” he said, “but I have no idea how to get out of it without looking like a piece of trash.”

“You already look like a piece of trash.”

“I don’t want to be in the show,” he said miserably. “I auditioned on a dare. I never thought I would actually get cast.”

If you were being honest with yourself, you felt a little bad for him. It was buried under several layers of smugness and a sickening desire to watch him flounder through the theatre program, but hey - you were playing Chris Hargensen for a reason.

“Look,” you finally said. “Give it a shot. It’s only for a few months. Your part hardly sings at all - you really don’t do too much. You’ll come on stage, act like a tool, let me grind on you a little, and leave. No biggie.”

He gave a heavy sigh.

“Do you have better plans?”

His lips twitched into a smirk. “Better than letting a girl grind on me? Not really.”

“Look at you, getting into character already.” You nodded at the rows of seats. “Pop a squat. Rehearsal starts in ten.”

 

 

“Costume measurements? Already?”

“They have a lot of costumes to find. They have to start early.”

“I’m not down for that. I saw FRIENDS - I know how they’ll measure my inseam.”

“I thought you stayed with the show because you wanted me getting all up in your junk.”

“Believe me, Y/N, having you up in my junk is a totally different story.”

 

 

“You really are the bad guy, huh?” Finch grinned at you, something like admiration coloring his voice. He had done a nice job during the read through, but it seemed like he had more fun watching everybody else do it.

“Pretty much everybody in this show is a bad guy,” you said. “Besides, you’re doing it all right along with me.”

“But you’re using me,” he insisted. “Billy is an idiot. Chris is the mastermind, and she just likes the attention she gets when her dad sees her with Billy.”

“Billy is a tool,” you countered. “He’s using Chris just as much as she uses him.”

Finch twisted to lay down, taking up an entire length of the choir room risers. If he was bothered by how dirty it must be, he didn’t show it. “Just like us. How fitting.”

You snorted, untying his shoelaces to tie them together. He watched you do it, unconcerned. “We both know that I like hanging out with you -”

“I didn’t know that,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows to look at you.

Your cheeks heated, but you feigned ease. “Yeah, well, I do. And we both know that you like being in the show -”

“I couldn’t care less about the show,” he scoffed. “I’m having fun, but it has nothing to do with all of this.” He waved his hands to gesture all over the room, careful to keep from pointing at you.

You grinned, continuing to knot his laces. He fought you for them, insisting that he would never be able to untie all of it, but it seemed like he cared more about grasping at your fingertips than he did about the shoes.

 

 

“So, he wants us to tone down the sex appeal? Lame.”

“Me. He wants me to tone down the sex appeal. You just sit there; I do all the work.”

“Believe me, if you were getting it on with Race or Romeo, it wouldn’t be half as appealing. I don’t have to work - I work it all on my own.”

“Fine. You can do the dancing, then.”

 

 

“I have no idea how you got this part,” you said, not bothering to stifle a laugh. “You’re a terrible dancer.”

Finch shrugged, unashamed. “I never claimed to be a good dancer. They must have seen my potential.”

They definitely had not seen any potential. There was no potential to be found. Searching for Finch’s dance potential would be no more fruitful that wandering through the desert in pursuit of water.

“It might help if you follow my lead,” you suggested weakly.

“Maybe.” Finch eyes your hips hesitantly, attempting to replicate each step. “Maybe not.”

“Alright, hands on.”

His eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

The look you gave him could have made flowers wither. “You have to get the choreography down, Finch. This may not matter to you, but it really matters to me. If having your hands on my hips is the way to get this down, that’s what we’re going to do.”

There was something subdued about the way he drew you to him. His grip grew tighter the longer he held on, and the closer he came to you, the more in time his moving became.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to wreck this for you.”

“Don’t wreck it, then.”

He smiled, huffing out a breath by your ear. “Keep teaching me like this, and I wouldn’t dare.”

The weight of his hands was a little more welcome, all of a sudden.

 

 

“Finch, you’re almost doing a good job.”

“I’ve got a good costar.”

“You’re right. I’m carrying this show.”

“More like Carrie-ing.”

“I take it back. You’re doing a terrible job.”

 

 

You snatched the bag of Cheetos away from Finch. “No eating in costume.”

“These are my clothes! I brought them from home.”

“They’re show property until the show is done,” you said sweetly. You popped a chip in your mouth. You needed to make the most of your time before changing.

“I’m going to starve,” he mumbled. 

“It’s only, like, 36 hours before you’re free,” you said. “Tonight, tomorrow night, and then you’ll never have to sing again. You can eat whenever you like, wherever you like, in whatever you like.”

Finch had been slouching dejectedly on the bleachers, and his posture changed a little. He didn’t straighten, exactly, but his carefree spread had stiffened. “Yeah, that’s not too long. I’ll need to eat tonight, though.”

“As one does.”

“Right.” He did sit up a little now, gaze flicking over your orange-dusted fingertips and show shirt. “We should go get something after the show tonight.”

You swallowed, food going down a little harder than before. Was he - ? No. No, Finch would never ask you out. He hated this. He was putting up with you because you were one of the few kids in the show that wasn’t constantly singing and dancing and being “way too theatre” for him. You were his fill-in friend.

But God, what if he had been?

You gave a cheery grin, wondering if he could see the way you gripped the bag a little too tight. “We always play laser tag after the Friday night show. You can get a slice of pizza or something while we’re there.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, that’ll be cool.” He slumped a little farther down into his seat. “Laser tag.”

Finch may have gotten into the show, but he really wasn’t all that good of an actor. You liked to think that you were, but you were feeling far too dazed to know what you should be doing. The multiple feelings were making your chest into a muddy mess of - of something.

Confusion.

Surprise.

Uncertainty.

Hope, maybe.

Pleasure, probably.

Happiness, definitely.

“You know,” you said, “I think that I might want to take off my stage makeup before we go. If you stick around to give me a ride, we can stop for a milkshake or something.”

His head shot up, brow furrowing while he waited for you to back out. When you didn’t, he brightened. “Yeah. Yeah, I can wait.”

You excused yourself to change into your costume, and he jauntily whistled “The World According to Chris” at your retreating back.

 

 

“It’s fitting that the lovers in the show got together at the end.”

“Our characters’ relationship isn’t exactly the goal.”

“They had a lot of sex. I can dig that.”

“Finch, they bullied a girl until she killed them.”

“But they had a lot of sex along the way. A fair tradeoff.”

“No.”

“Okay, yeah, no. But you have to admit, you and I are total goals.”


	61. Outgoing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi can I have a Jojo x Reader where she is really quiet and he's really outgoing and she really likes him a lot and she doesn't know that he likes her back? (your Finch soccer fic has my dead I love it ❤️)”

The perks of going to a cider mill in the fall included, though were not limited to: pumpkins, corn mazes, apple cider, those cute little gourds that you saw kids carrying around, friggin’ bomb donuts, and the fact that JoJo was going to be there.

The rest of your friends, too, but JoJo.

The major downside to going to a cider mill was the fact that pretty much everybody in the country enjoyed all of those things, so you had to deal with a bazillion other people in the process.

“This is heaven,” JoJo said. “It’s my favorite thing.”

“Totally.”

“If I see one more little kid in a giant sweater, I might actually die of happiness,” he said.

You grinned at him. He had been stoked to come, but his delight only increased the longer you stayed. He ate too much, bought too much, and smiled too much. It was hard to be uncomfortable about the crowds when he was walking with you.

You looked back toward the corn maze. “Do you think Race and Albert are out yet?”

“No,” he snorted. “They won’t finish unless they cheat.”

The boys had never managed to get out of the maze without cutting through the rows of corn, but they were convinced that this was the year. This was the year that they would actually win the maze, and it would be purely aboveboard.

You and JoJo had finished a half hour prior, and the boys hadn’t come out yet.

“We should go through again,” you said. JoJo gave a slow, deliciously sly smile while you continued. “I want to lap them.”

“I love it,” he said, and dragged you back to the entrance.

Race, JoJo, and Albert had always been as thick as thieves. Since most activities were better suited for two people than three, you often tagged along on whatever fun they had planned. Realistically, you knew that you were there to keep someone from being left out. In practice, it was easy to pretend that you had been included on merit alone.

You ended up with a different boy in different situations. Race would grab you when he needed somebody to make him look less problematic. Albert was as suspect as Race was, and JoJo’s smile could convince anybody that some master plan had been executed. If Race was standing by you, he just might get away with something.

Albert liked working with you academically. Even if the two of you couldn’t figure out how to do the work, he stood a better chance at paying attention if you say with him.

JoJo stood with you during social situations. It was strange; he absolutely adored socializing, and you always felt a step behind in large groups. It would have made more sense for him to hang out with people who loved public situations, but he always ended up with you.

Maybe it was a pity pairing. Maybe he just liked you well enough to choose you above all others. You wouldn’t complain either way.

You ran into Race and Albert about halfway through. “Hey, guys. Having a rough time?”

Albert gave a relieved sigh at the sight of you. “Man, it’s harder than usual this year. I don’t know how they can expect kids to figure this out.”

JoJo gave a small squeak in his attempt not to laugh. “Totally. How long have you been at it?”

Race checked his phone. “Over an hour.” He frowned. “What do you mean? You’re still in here too.”

JoJo looked at you. “This is, what, our sixth time through? Seventh?”

You squinted at the sky. “Let’s see - there was the first time -”

“The time we did it blindfolded -”

“Hopping on one foot -”

Albert took off his beanie and smacked you with it. “You guys are the worst.”

JoJo laughed. “Just because you guys don’t know how to read a map -”

“Using the map is cheating,” Race said haughtily. “That’s why you guys finished so fast.”

“Well,” you said, “we didn’t use it the time we were blindfolded, so there’s that.”

JoJo linked his arm with yours on the way out of the maze, and you thought you could understand why couples liked going to cider mills together. It was easy to imagine loving someone in a place like this. 

It was just as easy to imagine loving him later that night, when the atmosphere was different and JoJo was the same.

 

 

The fact was, JoJo was easy to like. He smiled a lot, and laughed at most of your jokes. He made you funnier. He made you feel smarter. He made you feel like you could probably talk to people more, if you really wanted to. He made you feel like a much better version of yourself, and that was a dangerous was to feel. Feeling that way was addictive, and hard to come down from.

“I’m telling you, we could be the best cryptid hunters,” JoJo insisted. He made the pitch every few weeks. After graduation, he said, the two of you ought to buy one of those Mystery Machine style vans and scrounge North and South America for creatures in hiding. 

If the suggestion hadn’t always arisen after he thought about things like college and careers, you might have taken him a little more seriously.

“You just want to be like Buzzfeed Unsolved,” you said.

He shifted in his chair to look at you directly. “We’ll be better than that. We’ll be straight up Ghostbusters. But, like, without capturing the cryptids. You know what I mean.”

You did. “Which one would you be?”

“Which one is the cutest?” He laughed when you threw a pillow at him. “We’ll be our own thing. No comparisons necessary.”

JoJo would be Bill Murray. He would be the one who had no trouble talking to people, who people wanted to have answers for. You wouldn’t be so good at that, but it was fun to imagine a life where you were. If that life included traveling the world with your best friend, even better.

“Let’s do it,” he sighed again.

“Alright,” you said. “You buy the van. I’ll handle snacks.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“If we do it long enough, I’m sure that I’ll match your expenses.” He rolled his eyes at you, so you made a sound of defeat. “Alright, I’ll design and buy our t-shirts, too.”

“Oh, big spender,” he teased. 

“Your plan, your losses,” you said. “You’ll be lucky enough to have my company.”

“That’s the truth,” he said. “JoJo and Y/N, dream team. No doubt.” When he said it like that, you believed him. 

You went to grab a drink from the kitchen, hoping that the break in the conversation would remind you that it was only ever like this when nobody else was around. It wasn’t realistic to imagine a life with JoJo being exactly the way it was when it was just the two of you. There would always be other people. There would always be other plans. JoJo would end up with somebody more like him, and you would end up hanging out on your own.

 

 

“You’re very quiet,” the old woman said thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” you agreed. You weren’t sure that there was a good response to that.

“You should smile more,” she said. “People won’t mind as much if you smile more.”

You winced. There definitely wasn’t a good, kind response to that.

JoJo took a step forward, positioning himself so he was almost more of a part of the conversation than you were. It was a relief to step away. “Y/N only smiles when there’s something to smile about. She’s great that way.”

The old woman made a few polite, mildly appalled sounds before excusing herself to talk to somebody else.

“Jesus Christ,” JoJo said, nearly impressed. “Family friends are the worst.”

“Preach.”

“Old people birthday parties are supposed to be cute,” he said. “She wasn’t cute at all.”

You laughed. “She really wasn’t.”

“You aren’t too quiet.”

“I know,” you said. That wasn’t quite true; you probably were too quiet, at times. It just seemed like no matter how much you talked to people, you never got much better at it. Your friends were some of the only people who made talking feel like less than a chore, and that was hard to explain. It was easier to sit back and let other people lead.

“And you smile often enough,” he said. “As long as you’re smiling at my jokes, you’re filling the quota.”

You nodded, nearly rolling your eyes. “Totally. As long as I hang out with you all the time, nobody can ever say that I’m not smiling enough.”

“Easy enough,” JoJo said cheerily. “We’ll have to hang out more. We’ll have to be literally attached at the hip.”

“Literally?”

“Literally,” he said solemnly.

“That’s gross,” you said.

JoJo laughed, and nobody could have said that you weren’t smiling enough. Nobody would have thought that you were too quiet.

 

 

“Race is probably gonna, like, be one of those high school teachers that pretends that he can be best friends with the students.” Elmer was laying on his back, taking his shot at imagining what everybody’s future would be like. “The one that tries to use cool slang and rag on other teachers, you know?”

Race made an appalled sound. “I would never be a teacher.”

“But you won’t deny the fake cool thing?”

“I would never be a teacher,” he said again, and you laughed.

Everybody thought that Davey would be one of those professors that had elbow patches.

Mush would own some sort of business, and his workers would be grossly overpaid because he’s too good for the universe.

Katherine would, of course, be a writer. A scathing, world changing writer.

“JoJo and Y/N are probably going to get married someday,” Katherine said dreamily. She took one of the cookie pieces off of her Oreo, careful not to peel up any frosting in the process. “They’ll have normal jobs, and normal kids, and be the happiest of all of us.”

Jack applauded. “Way to go, guys. Mad props.”

You gave an uncomfortable smile, careful not to meet JoJo’s eyes. “Yeah, no, I don’t think JoJo and I would work out.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Katherine scoffed. Some of the guys agreed, and Katherine raised her eyebrows at you as though the consensus alone proved that you were wrong. “You guys would be great. You always make sure that the other person is happy. What more could you want?”

“That’s not - I’m not saying that we wouldn’t make each other happy. JoJo is my main man,” you said. You grinned at him; maybe most of the words weren’t happy ones, but JoJo being your friend would always be a happy thing. Whether you were satisfied with it or not, JoJo was always a source of happiness. “He’s the best. But we’re really different.”

JoJo leaned forward in his seat. “How?”

“Like, you really like being around people. I don’t like that at all,” you said.

“You’re people,” he pointed out. “I’m just as jazzed when it’s the two of us as I am with thirty other people.”

“Everything makes you smile. I’m hardly ever as happy as you,” you said.

He shrugged, nearly letting soda slosh over the rim of his cup. “If I make you smile, that’s good enough.”

You threw your hands up, defeated and a little annoyed. “If you’re so hellbent on proving me wrong, let’s just date.” There was something scathing and sarcastic about the way you said it, but JoJo was unbothered.

“Okay,” JoJo said. “Let’s date.”

A hush fell over the room. You gaped at JoJo, and he stared back with no trace of humor on his face.

“Let’s give them some privacy,” Katherine said. For once, nobody fought her. For once, all of your friends managed to keep their heads out of everybody else’s business. They left the basement, and you were alone with JoJo.

“I like you,” JoJo said. “A lot. I’m not saying that you have to agree to marry me now, but I think that you and I being You-and-I is worth a shot.”

“I had no idea that you liked - that you wanted -” you croaked.

“Everybody else did,” he said wryly. “Seriously, everybody else knows. People in China probably know.”

You didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t how you imagined things going. Really, you hadn’t imagined it much at all. You hadn’t ever thought that there was a point to imagining this.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he said seriously. “I know that the whole cryptid hunting thing is never going to happen. If you don’t want to be together like that, I won’t be upset with you.”

“I really want that,” you said. That, at least, you knew for sure. “I do want to be together like that.”

“Really?”

“That would be my favorite thing,” you said, and he laughed. He laughed, and you thought that maybe the two of you weren’t too different after all.


	62. Drastic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “canon era darcy?”

“Hi,” you beamed. “My name is Y/N L/N, and I’m looking for a rich young man to marry. Help me make my family proud.”

Darcy grinned. “I don’t think that’s what your mother has in mind.”

“Fine,” you huffed, stifling a smile. “How about this—Hello, handsome stranger. How would you feel about stealing my virtue, and spending the rest of your life with me to cover the indignity of it all?”

“Y/N!” Darcy gave a bark of laughter, caught somewhere between delight and exasperation. “When I said that I’d help you get ready for tonight, I meant that I would actually help you get ready.”

You snorted. “I don’t need help. I exude charm.”

You did not, in fact, exude charm. You were about as far from married as anybody ever came, and there was no way to pretend that it wasn’t the result of your own attitude. Your parents wanted to see you settle down, so they had agreed to let Darcy help you get into character for one of their parties. Darcy would be there, so you probably wouldn’t talk much to anybody else, but it looked good for you to try.

“Charm me,” Darcy said.

You pulled a handkerchief from your pocket and dropped it on the ground. “Oh, dear! I need help! My handkerchief, gone forever. If only there was a young, handsome suitor who could pick it up for me.”

Darcy rolled his eyes.

“You!” You looked at him, lips tilting into a simpering smile. “Just the man I wanted—no, needed—to see. Please, kind sir, come to my aid.”

Jaw clenched against a smile, he snatched up the embroidered scrap of fabric and handed it back.

“My hero.”

“That was terrible,” he said.

“It worked.”

“It really didn’t.”

You waved the handkerchief at him. “Oh?”

“That was a pity favor,” he insisted. “Because damsels in distress are my weakness, not my utmost desire.”

“You’ve never met a damsel in distress,” you scoffed. The only women he spoke to regularly were you and Katherine, so he knew nothing of women who needed saving. He knew women who saved themselves.

“Not that you know of,” he countered. “You have no idea how many women are hoping I come to call on them.”

No, you didn’t. To be frank, you were thankful for that ignorance.

“Besides, I’m not sure I can be of any help to you,” he finished.

“No?”

He offered you his elbow. “I think you may be hopeless, Y/N. A spinster in the making.”

“Wonderful.” You took his arm, allowing him to lead you back home. “I suppose I ought to start learning how to spin, then.”

 

 

Katherine had done a quick walk around the room, and she came back with a broad grin on her face. “Alright, I have the most popular pairs.”

“Out with it,” Bill said.

“Darcy and I are the most common,” she said.

“Wonderful,” you grinned. “Have they named your children yet?”

“Darcy for our first born son, of course,” she deadpanned. “I hear that we’ll name a girl Elize, after my grandmother.”

“I’m actually thinking Margaret,” Darcy said. “It’s a lovely name.”

“Hush up, dear.”

Darcy and Katherine, as close as they had always been, were always expected to end up together. You didn’t remember ever expecting it, but maybe you knew them too well. Katherine was a woman of action; she needed someone as likely to lead her into trouble as he was to follow her into it.

You weren’t sure what Darcy needed, exactly, but it made your stomach ache to imagine it too much. It was easier to enjoy his bachelor years without worrying about how they would end.

“And the others,” you prompted.

“Bill is supposed to marry just about every girl in the room,” Katherine said. She rolled her eyes at his broad grin. “He’s quite a catch.”

“It’s the smile,” you sighed.

“And the eyes,” she agreed.

“Not the personality,” Darcy said. “That would be ridiculous.”

Bill shrugged. “You’re just jealous. You only have one true love. I have dozens.”

“Y/N, the lucky lady, is probably going to marry some foreign ambassador’s son,” Katherine finished.

In other words, the upper class of New York did not anticipate that you would be marrying one of their own. It wasn’t a surprise—you had never fit in with them. You weren’t as good at faking the same interests as your friends were. You weren’t as polite. You were wholeheartedly against the idea of marrying most of the men you knew, but you were still a little hurt that none of their parents wanted you as a daughter.

“He’s going to be way better looking than Bill, let me tell you,” you said haughtily.

“Impossible,” Darcy said. “That smile.”

“Those eyes,” Katherine agreed, voice breaking a little when she started to laugh.

“Look out,” Bill said, “or you may end up marrying someone with a good personality.”

Darcy laughed outright, his eyes bursting into light when he smiled. He always ducked his chin when he laughed, like he needed to make sure he didn’t make a scene. You had to fight the urge to duck your head to get a better view of his grin.

“What a horrifying possibility,” you said, mouth dry.

 

 

Katherine had her hands on her hips. “Y/N, you have to choose.”

“I can’t.”

“We’ve been here for ages. If you don’t pick soon, we’ll never leave.”

You looked around the bookshop. “Would that really be so terrible?”

You heard Darcy gave a huff of laughter behind you. “No, not so terrible.”

“We should get lunch,” Katherine said. “Y/N, food.”

“Katherine,” you said evenly, “I have two books to choose between. I have enough money with me for one of them. This is a serious decision, and I will take all the time I need.”

“Darcy, tell Y/N that I’m going to waste away. She might actually listen to you.”

“Y/N—”

“Darcy,” you cut in. “Tell Katherine that she can’t rush me. My future happiness cannot be rushed.”

“Y/N, I’ll buy one of the books,” he said.

Your head shot up. Whatever Katherine had planned on saying died in her throat.

“That’s not—that’s not what I told you to say, Darcy,” you said numbly. “Do listen better next time.”

“I’ll buy you the book,” he said again. “Now you don’t have to choose. Just have both.”

“I will not have you spending money on me like that. You don’t have to—”

“Y/N,” Katherine said. She grinned at you, widening her eyes a little bit as though she was trying to make a point. She flicked her gaze between you and Darcy. “It’s very rude to refuse a gentleman’s offer.”

Since when had Katherine cared about propriety?

“That’s true,” Darcy said with a mild smile. He grabbed the books you were holding and wandered toward the front counter.

Since when had Darcy cared about propriety? You were hopelessly bewildered. You should have just picked a book.

Katherine grabbed your bicep. “Y/N, Darcy is trying to buy. You. A. Gift.”

“Yeah, and I have no idea why.”

“Y/N,” she hissed. She pursed her lips at you, looking like she seriously doubted any intelligence that she ever believed you possessed. “Y/N, Darcy likes you. Really likes you. Now he’s actually doing something about it.”

“Oh,” you said. “Oh! Absolutely not.”

“Of course he does,” she scoffed. “He always has.”

“But everyone says—”

“Since when did you buy into what anyone else says? I’m telling you that Darcy spends more time with you than anyone else. He’s buying you a present that you never asked for. The only reason the two of you aren’t in a public relationship is that he hasn’t talked to your parents about it.”

When Darcy came back, he had bought both of the books you were considering. You accepted the bag wordlessly. You accepted his arm wordlessly. You walked with him wordlessly, Katherine following a few paces behind.

Darcy hadn’t ever spoken to your parents. If he had—if spending time with him involved an official courtship, would you still want to be around him?”

At first, you thought that your stomach was aching the way it did when you imagined him with other girls. After walking for a few blocks, you decided that it wasn’t an ache. It was more of a tingle, or a fluttering. It wasn’t bad at all.

 

 

Katherine started seeing one of the newsies.

People stopped talking about Darcy and Katherine getting married.

There was no more talk of foreign ambassadors, though Katherine said nothing of who people thought you or Darcy would end up with.

 

 

“Darcy,” you pleaded, “I may implode if you don’t tell me exactly what Pulitzer’s face looked like when he saw Jack and Katherine together.”

“He just looked—he just looked defeated,” Darcy said. 

“Details.”

“I can’t even describe it.” Darcy was sitting on a bench while you paced in front of him. “His face was the same as always, but the light faded from his eyes.”

“I have never been so happy in my entire life,” you sighed, collapsing into the seat next to him.

“You have wonderful priorities.”

“Nothing makes adulthood seem as promising as a healthy dose of familial disappointment,” you said.

Darcy grinned. “Is that why we helped with the Children’s Crusade?”

“That, and because we have no sense of self-preservation,” you agreed. “Want to go get something to eat?”

“I probably shouldn’t,” he sighed. “I really ought to be getting home. We’ve been out for hours.”

“Yeah,” you said.

Neither of you stood.

“And we know how my parents are. They’ll lose their minds if I’m out too late with you,” you said.

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed.

Neither of you stood.

“You know,” Darcy said, “I’m starving. We should get something to eat.”

He wasn’t smiling when you took his arm, but his shoulders were relaxed in a way that that made you want to stand a little closer to him than usual. He didn’t pull away.

 

 

You waited on the street corner for Darcy to come out on his lunch break. He didn’t come out at the same time every time you met up, so you came early with a book to pass the time.

“Y/N!”

You looked up and saw Darcy, as impeccable as always. “Hey!”

His face split into an enormous grin. “Y/N, there you are.”

It was stupid—it was such a common phrase. You must have heard those words a million times in the course of your life. Nonetheless, the words stopped you cold. Something about the way he said them—like there was nobody he would rather be seeing, or like it was the most marvelous thing that he had finally found you—made your chest ache in a way that was nearly unbearable.

 

 

There was a Christmas party at the Pulitzer house, and everybody was in a tizzy about some of Katherine’s distant family coming.

“Cousins,” you mother said happily. “You have to talk to them, Y/N. You must have Katherine introduce you.”

“Cousins,” Katherine spat. “They’re so boring, Y/N. You can’t imagine.”

“Cousins,” Darcy echoed when your mother asked him to help you prepare for the party. “You want Y/N to talk to them? I can—I can absolutely help her get ready. Absolutely.”

You waited for him in the sitting room, wishing that the family members weren’t coming at all. You wanted to go to the party, eat too much food, and make jokes about the other partygoers. You didn’t want to talk to strangers with your parents watching like hawks.

When Darcy finally showed up, he didn’t bother with pleasantries. In some ways, that was more surprising to you than anything else he could have done.

“Y/N, I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Hello, Darcy,” you said.

“I know that your parents want me to help you impress Katherine’s family—”

“I’m doing very well, Darcy, thank you so much for asking,” you said. You smiled at him, hoping that the frantic skip in his step would calm. “Darcy, sit down.”

“Y/N,” he said, exasperated. “I need you to listen. I’ve been thinking about it all day, and there’s something that we need to talk about.”

All of your good humor leaked away. “Alright.”

“Your parents want you to marry one of the Pulitzers.”

“I know.”

“I think that you should marry me instead,” he said.

You didn’t say a word. You weren’t sure that you could have, even if you wanted to.

“Marry me,” he said breathlessly. He finally sat in the chair opposite yours, like saying it aloud was all it took to return him to reason. “Who cares about the propriety? Let’s just do it—get married tonight, or tomorrow, or who cares when.”

You gave a nervous laugh. “Darcy, that seems like a drastic way to get out of nuptial arrangements.”

“It’s only drastic if you don’t want it.”

“What about you?” It didn’t matter that Katherine believed that he wanted you. It didn’t matter that you thought you heard wishes in his voice; it didn’t matter that the things you heard made you want them too. Darcy had never said anything outright, and that seemed like the only important factor now. “Wouldn’t marrying me be a pretty drastic change for your future?”

“Y/N, the only parts of my future I’ve ever planned for involve the paper and you. I have the paper.” He took off his hat, wringing it between his clenched fists. “I’ll take you however I can.”

You took his hat, moving it to the table before he could do too much damage. He put his hands on his knees instead, so you covered one with your own.

“Darcy, I want you to think about this.”

“I already have.”

“Darcy, I want you to think more. I don’t want you to make any decisions that you’ll regret later,” you said. “I don’t want to be something you regret later.”

“Would you regret marrying me?”

“Absolutely not,” you said. You had imagined marrying him since the bookshop. You had never been completely sure how you felt about it—not bad, but not being completely opposed to a match was not reason enough to marry somebody.

Looking at him now, you felt good about the idea. Very, very good.

Darcy grinned. “Neither would I.”

“To be clear,” you said with a grin, “I’m not marrying you tonight. Or tomorrow, most likely.”

“That’s fair.”

“But, if you’re certain, I will marry you.”

He had been rough in handling his hat. There was nothing rough about the way he held your face when he kissed you. 

He looked down, beaming, when you pulled away. This time, when the urge hit for you to duck your head to get a clearer look at his pleasure, you didn’t fight it.


	63. Haunted House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would die for a Halloween themed Finch x Reader ;; I love your writing so much. I always go back and read your Finch stories when I need to relax”

Katherine: if you don’t bring me coffee, i might freeze to death

Y/N: ooOOooOohHHhh nNoooOOoooO

Katherine: if you dont bring me coffee, i wont live long enough to work on the final project in AP with you

Y/N: be there in 20

 

 

Katherine was a witch.

More accurately, she was a witch in a haunted house during the Halloween season. She rolled her eyes when people told her it was a fitting costume, but you enjoyed doing it nonetheless. You snuck in through the back entrance in between groups, balancing a carrier full of cups while you tried to find her room.

It was sort of disconcerting to go through the house when the workers weren’t trying to be scary. They would sit around on their phones, or you would see a serial killer having an animated conversation with a mummy. Sometimes Katherine would tell you about a killer hillbilly having a crush on one of the zombies, or a vampire waging a prank war on the other workers.

You knew it wasn’t as exciting as it sounded, but you sort of wished you’d applied for a job there.

“Katherine,” you called. “Your coffee is gonna get cold if you don’t come out soon.”

“Katherine,” a werewolf chimed in, “I’ll drink your coffee if you don’t show up soon.”

Katherine materialized next to you, glorious in her creeptastic costume. “Over my dead body, Jack.”

“They need to get a space heater or something,” you griped. You had gotten yourself a drink too, but the cup couldn’t warm your toes or your cheeks. 

Katherine laughed. “You get used to it once the numbness sets in.”

“Easy for you to say,” one of the skeletons huffed. Finch was in the room next to Katherine’s, so he would come over to talk to you sometimes when you visited. “You have a thicker costume. Mine’s a glorified morph suit.”

“And it fits you wonderfully,” you grinned, giving him an exaggerated once over.

“It isn’t worth it.”

“It is for me,” you said.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Halloween fetishists are so gross.”

You laughed. Loving Halloween was probably easier when you didn’t have to be in a haunted house for the entire season. You got to immerse yourself whenever you wanted, and only when you wanted to. It just so happened to be a nonstop want.

“You’re just jealous,” you said lightly. “You wish that people came in and wanted to get freaky with a werewolf.”

“Most people do.”

“It’s probably more fun to bone skeletons.”

Katherine cackled, but Finch groaned. “I don’t know why I keep coming in here. It’s only the middle of October. Can’t the puns wait until we’re closer to the actual holiday?”

“No,” you said.

“You should bring us coffee, then,” Jack said, smiling sweetly. “Make it worth our while.”

The next time you brought Katherine a drink, you brought one for Finch. Not Jack.

 

 

Katherine: thanks for the coffee

Y/N: i gotchu

Katherine: interesting that i didnt have to ask for it

Y/N: im an angel

Katherine: or you wanted to see Finch

Y/N: why do they have to be mutually exclusive?

 

 

It wasn’t so hard for you to admit to yourself that you had a crush on Finch. How could you not? When you went through the haunted house as a customer instead of as Katherine’s delivery person, he would sneak candy into your pockets and hood on your way through. When you told jokes, he was appropriately disgusted by them.

Sometimes, when you brought coffee for everybody, you imagined asking him out. You imagined turning away his money, offering instead to just let him buy you dinner later. You imagined plenty of things, but always ended up chickening out. If he said no, it would be awkward to keep coming back. You didn’t want to miss out on hanging out with your other friends just because you misjudged somebody’s feelings.

“You should probably go,” Finch said. “The next group’ll be coming through in a few minutes, and I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

You shrugged. “I’ll pretend to be a murder victim or something.”

Katherine laughed. “Yeah! Let’s make a cult circle. Y/N can be our sacrifice.”

“It’ll add a bit of realism. Nobody is safe.”

Finch was smiling, but he shook his head. “If you get caught, they won’t let you come back again. No more coffee.”

“And no more Y/N,” Race crooned. The high pitched voice seemed out of place when he was dressed like a mummy, but you could see his smug smile through the wrap. He wiggled his fingers at Finch. “Tragic, right? How would you ever make it through a shift if you didn’t think Y/N might show up?”

Finch scowled, elbowing him in the side.

You grinned while you picked up your bag. “I’d hate to deprive Finch, so I’ll bounce. See you around.”

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad call to make a move on Finch, after all.

 

 

Finch: Y/N, if you put somebody elses number on my cup, ill scream

Y/N: it is called TRICK or treat

Finch: and i got the treat?

Y/N: depends on your standards boo

Finch: halloween puns arent funny

Y/N: depends on your standards boo

 

 

It didn’t matter how many times you saw Finch out of costume; you were always shocked by how handsome he was. He had killer cheekbones even when the makeup wasn’t there to highlight them. His hair was fair and soft when he didn’t have a hood up. He was great to look at, and you had no excuses when you were caught staring.

Katherine had invited everybody over after work to hang out. The arrivals were slow coming, since most of the attendees wanted to go home and change before coming over. Finch was one of the first to arrive, and he playfully rolled his eyes when he saw you.

“God, I can’t escape from you anywhere, huh? You don’t even work at the house.”

You shrugged. “Nope. I’m everywhere.”

“That’s the true horror.” He took off his coat and threw it over the back of a chair, looking around the living room thoughtfully. “Nice digs.”

“Katherine’s parents are loaded.”

“Y/N!” Katherine bellowed at you from the basement. “Who’s here?”

“Finch!”

“Make him help you get snacks! I’m setting up Mario Party.”

“If they’re that loaded,” he grumbled, “they should hire some people to get us snacks.” He followed you to the kitchen to grab chips and cookies. When he saw you filling up a cup with water, he frowned. “Aren’t you gonna help?”

“Sure. Once I get a drink.”

“In that case, I want one too. I don’t wanna do all the work,” he said. He grabbed your biceps to shift you to the side.

You rolled your eyes and raised the cup to your mouth, but paused. There were streaks of face paint running along the edge of his jaw. He must not have been able to see it when he was washing off. You weren’t sure if you should tell him where the bathroom was, or maybe—

“Finch.”

“Yeah?” He looked over, so you pushed his head to face forward again. “What’re you doing?”

“You missed some of the makeup. Can I wipe it off?”

“Sure,” he said.

You grabbed a washcloth and held it under the faucet. You wiped at the white, frowning when it only smeared. “God.”

“Yeah, we have to get stuff that’ll last all night without running.”

You leaned in close to rub a little harder. “Let me just—okay, okay, almost gone.”

He was statuesque while he waited for you to finish. His adam’s apple bobbed. “Cool. Thanks.”

You grabbed his face again to inspect it for any lingering paint.

There was none.

You didn’t let go.

“Thanks,” Finch repeated, voice a little thicker.

“Anytime,” you said.

He didn’t pull away. “Am I all good?”

“Yep. Absolutely perfect.”

“I already knew that,” he said, shooting you a brief smile.

“Yeah, me too,” you said. You pulled away reluctantly. Really, this wasn’t the time or the place. As wonderful as it would be to kiss Finch, you didn’t want it to be interrupted. Anybody could walk in.

“Thanks,” he said a third time, cheeks going pink while he mussed up his hair. A few minutes later, when Race pointed out the color in his cheeks, Finch said that he had rubbed a little too hard when he took off the makeup. That was believable enough, but it didn’t explain how flustered he was for the rest of the night.

 

 

Finch: you know what isn’t funny

Y/N: dead baby jokes?

Finch: no

Finch: i mean

Finch: i guess

Finch: but what REALLY isnt funny is singing spooky scary skeleton every time you go through my room

Y/N: you have no taste

 

 

“So,” Finch said.

You looked at him, eyebrows raised. He was wearing his normal clothes, but he still had somewhat streaky skeleton makeup smeared across his face. Finch talked a lot, but he wasn’t exactly chatty. He didn’t say much if he didn’t know what he actually wanted to say. The fact that he would start a sentence without finished one threw you off.

“So?” You grinned, zipping up your coat. “Real succinct.”

“You know it.” He looked between you and the steady stream of workers leaving the house. “Look, I wanted to talk to you about something before the others were ready to go.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“This is the last day of work this year.”

Sadly, it was. Everybody was going out for an after party of sorts, and you had been invited along. As miserable as the cold could be, and as disillusioning as it was to go through a haunted house when you could identify who wore every costume, you were going to miss it.

“It is,” you agreed, wondering what he was getting at.

“I think we should keep hanging out,” Finch blurted.

You raised your eyebrows, surprised enough that you forgot to be excited.

“It’s just,” he mumbled, “I never really got around to asking you out. We got to see each other all the time, you know? Now that we won’t see each other at work, it would be nice if we saw each other outside of work. Just the two of us.”

“You want to go out on a date?”

Finch looked confused at your surprise. “Well, yeah. Of course I do.”

“Alright.” You did grin then, broad and delighted. A real date. Not sitting by each other in a group setting. Not texting in the middle of the night, or snapchatting during the day. Not buying him coffee, or letting him sneak you pieces of candy that he kept in his coat pockets. A real date, with no friends and no flirting that could be misconstrued as friendly. “That would be awesome.”

His eyes lit up. “Great. Yeah, that’s super cool. We can talk more later. When the guys aren’t around, you know.”

You had expected the after party to be bittersweet. You couldn’t feel any of the bitterness—you were walking on air. The others assumed that you were just having fun. If any of them noticed that Finch was smiling more than usual, they said nothing about it.

 

 

Finch: quit walking past my table. i know you see me

Y/N: i dont see a skeleton anywhere

Finch: its december

Y/N: halloween is a lifestyle

Finch: this is a nice restaurant, and you know im not wearing a costume. Sit tf down

Y/N: fine. youre paying

Finch: what a surprise


End file.
